The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1900-06-17

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read. "simkin's Pies" and another. Three
Bread Tickets for 10 Cents
OF a sudden an awful thought struck
simsie. What If she could not get the
reporter back into the shop again? Then
pop would lose the chance of selling his
poetry. 1t was with much nervousness
that she saw him look up and down the
street. as If about to take his departure.
you haven't seen all of IL yet" she said,
watching him very intently. Wont you
come in now?-
No; guess I'll take a smoke out here"
"Oh. you can smoke inside Pop does.
Come in
The shop had seemed insufferably stuffy
to Poston. He had thought of describing
1t as "deoxygenated doughnutry." He
lighted a cigarette and took a step or two
up the street. Then he felt a small hand
grasp his, and heard Simsies appeal
'Oh. please come back, won't you? Don't
go away?"
Il wasn't going away" he said, permit
ting himself TO be led into the dough
nutry" again and feeling austere benign
ancy come over him in gentle wave.
All" he heard the voice of the poet
saying, "Ah! The muses. are with me
strong to-day. Seems like 1 could write
almost anything. Come in, young man,
and listen to this"
Nothing of the condescension that Law
three inches thick over the reporters man.
ner toward him was seen by the bard. He
began to read the poem all over again. in
toning and swelling the happiest lines with
wonderful effect. The reading and the
style of 1t decided Poston. He had been
wavering for some reason or other. Now
he was firm. 1t would make a rafting
good story. Nothing of 1t should be left
out. He felt sure the Sunday editor would
be highly pleased.
Now, when you publish this. young
man." said the poet, ''you want to be sure
to get In all the lines Don't you think
that one that ends 'surcease of sorrow is
good? And where the little match boys
mother dies, amt that affecting? / almost
cried when I wrote it,
"Oh, it's so sadi' declared Simsie. Don't
you think SOP" she asked of Poston.
"oh, very" was the reply. Now let me
make some selections from the box"
How many. are you goin' to print?'
asked the bard
Cant say-perhaps six or eight of the
best"
six or eight? That will be just grandr'
said Simsie.
In taking the poems from the box Poston
observed that many of them were in the
envelopes in which they had been returned
from magazine editors and newspaper folk.
He mentioned the fact to the old man.
Yes" he said, with a deep sigh. 'Ill
tell We honestly, they've all been refused.
some Of EN- as much as twenty times. It
takes a lot of postage stamps to keep 'em
goin' the rounds. / was kind o. waitin' to
git little money before I sent 'em out
again. This poetry writin' takes heap of
patience
Patience and postage" repeated Poston
to himself. That's a good subhead for
my story
He made two selections and the bard
looked them over
Il think" said the old man, 'Td take out
Fathers Lost His Job and put in The
Gas Is Burnin' Bright. You don't want all
sad pieces, do YEP
But they're the funniest-I mean the
most fetching" said Poston Better put
that in extra. That will make nine. If
don't want to print 'em all can leave out
Fathers Lost His Job
Simsie put theyerses in a little paper bag
she brought from behind the counter. Then
Poston prepared to take his leave
I'm awful glad We came" said the poet.
IF the Hurruld prints these they'll want
more. I s'pose. I'll write a good one to-
night. 1 feel like could allus write best
after dark. anyway"
He swelled grandly. He knew that his
fame and fortune were assured now.
Poston said "Good-byei" and walked
away. He had not reached the corner be-
fore Simsie again grasped his hand.
us it really sop she asked. You're not
foolin'? Once a editor wrote and said he'd
print one of the pieces, and we waited and
waited, and 1t never come out You amt
fooiin', are you?"
Poston did not relish this. That hand
pressed his with too much friendship for
present purposes.
mo: III print EN-" he said, but he could
not look down into Simsies eyes when he
made this promise.
"Oh. thought you was all right" she
explained. II only wanted to make sure"
and the pressure of the hand increased TO
one of perfect confidence and trust.
Poston began to hate himself. He did not
give up the plan of printing his article and
some of the worst instances of the poets
rank incompetency and unconscious humor,
but he wished there were no child in the
matter. He was not quite blase and cynical
enough to keep this factor of it from prick
ing him.
Goodbye" said Simsie. Then she ran
back and threw kiss at him, that seemed
a benediction of the unworthy, and Poston
got aboard his car.
At the office he did not seem to enthuse
when he told the story TO the Sunday ed
itor.
You can make a good thing ont of that,
Bruce It's the best kind of fun, and
you've got bully chance for that descrip-
tive genius of yours. I'll bet you are full
of clever phrases at this moment"
But Poston was modest. He slightly
deprecated the idea of the story, but he
gave the editor the address of the Bard
of the Bakery, that he might send pho
tographer out to get picture of him.
There's girl out there concluded Pos
ton, ''just little thing. He might want to
photograph her. too: but ask him to leave
her out, will you. old chap? She don't