The suburban citizen., 1902-09-13

hand, quite different from the short
square characters on the notepaper. IL
making the copy he used a pen with
a porcelain handle, which he dipped
in an ink-bottle covered with red
leather. He had taken these from be-
| hind n clock on the mantel. At the
top of the sheet he wrote, "On Fallen
Tree" and at the bottom, beneath the
last line, to the right, the word "Anon."
He placed the paper in an envelope,
which he addressed in the same tall
back-hand to the editor of the Dor.
hampton Bugle Call.
Some time In the week following the
lines "On Fallen Tree" appeared on
the editorial page Of the Bugle Call.
Mr.. HOugh bought two copies Of the
paper that day, putting one Of them
in the inside pocket of his coat. When
alone that evening he cut out the
verses with the scissors from his wife's
work-basket, and slipped them into an
old wallet which contained many other
clippings Of verse signed "Anon."$
Once the Bugle Call directed atten.
tlon editorially to these anonymous
contributions. 1t asked, "WhO is our
poet?' But the answer was not forth
coming. There was considerable in.
terest in the question, and the unknown
author was sometimes referred TO as
the sweet singer Anon" Several of
the Dorhampton women of known lit
erary bent were suspected of having
written the poems, but they disavowed
the authorship of them. The contrl.
but ons to the Bugle Call increased in
number.
Herbert Hough brought a college
friend with him when he returned
home for the mld-year vacation. Mr.
Hough rarely took his eyes off Her.
bert. He noted the careless way his
son threw leg over the arm of
chair; the independent manner In
which he thrust his hands into his
pockets when standing before the fire.
He listened to debates between Her.
bert and his friend concerning the
value of certain studies. and his firm
lips parted ard his tight jaw dropped.
Whenever Herbert said political
Economy" or Renaissance" his father
would curve the toe of his boot up
ward and his face would express pro.
found attention. Herbert and his
friend talked great deal about lit
erature in an esoterlc way. pralsing
and damning the life-work of authors
whose very name the elder HOugh had
never heard mentioned. Upon Herbert
remarking that certain classic writer
made him tired" his father said, II
should think they'd know better than
to teach you about him"
One evening, shortly after the young
men had arrived, Mr.. Hough, on re,
turning from the chair-factory, tossed
n copy Of the Bugle Call on the sitting.
room table. 1t was folded with the
editorial page outward. After supper,
when they were seated about the table,
he regarded the newspaper both ex-
pectantly and uneasily. He also
watched his son. Herbert was moving
around the room restlessly, hands in
pockets. At length he approached the
table and picked up the paper mechan.
ically.
Now, Steve" he said to his friend,
IF you are good I'll read you some
moving journalism. This Dorhampton
paper Is really better than a comic
weekly" He glanced over the edl.
torial page until his attention was sud
denly arrested. He read for moment,
and then burst into u shout of laugh.
ter.
"Oh, dear" he gasped "This Is bet.
ter than | expected. Now listen to 1t.
This is printed not as a joke, but
seriously He began to read
Little bird, little bird, are you cold
UP there on the telegraph wire?
While l am wrapped in an overcoat
And have warm fire?'
The reading was interrupted by an
explosion Of laughter from Herberts
friend.
do you wonder why wear hat,
While you have naught on your head? |
Are you thinking that when the night |
comes
You are homeless, but have a bed?
"Or is it perhaps for a mate
That you twitter so softly and sweet?
Cheer up, little bird, the Springs
coming,
When brides with lovers will meet"
"Thls," said Herbert, in a choking
voice. sis called, What Say, Little