The Tomahawk., 1916-12-28

Strive ever in vain for the utternnce
clear,
And think of the sorrowful spirit that
sings,
And level the song with the gem OF
tear.
For the harp Of the minstrel mas never
AS sad as the song in his bosom to-
night,
And the magical touch OF his fingers
alone
Cannot waken the echoes that
breathe it Alright.
had read the lines over to myself,
and although recognizing many touches
decidedly like those of the famous au-
thor of "Lalla Rookh," / was not who'll
ly satisfied with the production; and It
struck me with peculiar force that an
ethereal composition would surely not
be so lavishly tinctured with unutter"
able sorrOw-aside from being Tar lR-
ferior to q hundred earthly songs OF
Moore's. So, with this argument for
my weapon, determined to conquer
the superstition that had almost over
powered me. / had noticed, too, In
both former instances singular fact:
The old man, though so ready to fend
off all comment that might reflect
single ray of praise upon himself, lis
tened with more of the air of critic
than one whose interest was merely
that of curiosity, and still when the
fragmentary productions were read
aloud, q look Of more than ordinary
satisfaction would tighten up his eyes.
The facts, hastily reviewed, deter
mined me upon course Of action had
instant opportunity to adopt.
"Read it aloud" said the Old man.
impatiently; '.read it aloud!"
complied with more than usual
enthusiasm, reading verbatim from the
copy, until I came to the repetition OF
the first four lines, which I thus trans
posed, or, rather, paraphrased.
1.-THE harp of the minstrel has never
note
AS sad as the song in his bosom ex-
pressed,
And the magical touch of his fingers
afloat
Drifts over the echoes that sleep in
the breast
This I was careful to deliver without
emphasis or mark Of any kind by which
he might discover any imposition on
my part. AS closed stole hasty
glance at his face, and was gratified
to find it wearing rather startled ex-
preston: not only did his features be-
tray a puzzled and questioning air, but
his hand was mechanically extended,
as though reaching for the paper in
my own.
do you want to see it?" asked
suddenly, handing him the scrap
Eyes, I-Oh, no-no," he broke in.
dropping his hand, and his face COZ
ored wildly. But turning again as
quickly, he added: eyes, give it to me.
Where are the others? I must be go
inE.'
"Why must you. go?" asked, still
retaining the scrap; II had hoped"
II am going!" he interrupted brusk-
~, snatching up the scraps that lay
upon the counter, and reaching for the
one still held. "Give me the poem. l
will trouble you. no longer"
"Allow me to retain it, beg Of you"
said I, with significant smile, and the
slightest tinge of sarcasm in my voice.
LET me keep it as BETTING melnen-
to of the inspiration I have seen 50
potently exercised"
His face was pale with anger as he
replied:
II will not. When you want rhyme
write it yourself. You can at least
write doggerel."
every neat" said I, Laughing. I'VE
understand each other, 50 let's be
friends. Here is my hand and dol
lar besides. Give me the other scraps.
II want them ALL" .
I took them from him as he eautehed
at the bill, which he smothered In his
palm, and then turned away without
a word.
"Here, Charley" called one Il the
bystanders, "half of that's enough for
you tonight"
The door slammed violently and he
was gone.
"Old Cain will have that dollar in
just five minutes" continued the man.
"And who's Old Cain?" asked.
"Keeps the doggery just ever the
line"
"Old Charley n is a we'll
known character in Union Gty-his
home, in fact, although he often dis
appears for long periods, but, as my
informant remarked, always turns up
again like bad penny"
His story Of his early life Is at least
based upon the truth, but now SO high
~ colored it is decidedly difficult
matter to detect that simple element.
Originally he was printer, but he