Catoctin clarion., 1918-02-07
Loves
Messenger
C1
By VIRGINIA LEE


Matt Burns stepped from wood
land path, past the edge of little bush
guarded covert and deposited upon the
greensward basket, we'll filled. He
chuckled and grunted with evident
sef-satisfaction. Then his eyes rested
with quick, tender light upon a boy
ish-faced, invalid-looking man, many
years his junior, who sat with his back
to tree, doing.
Beside the latter was pad Of blank
paper and pencil, and alongside Of
these was folded sheet. Both Matt
and his friend, or rather charge of his,
We're tattered as to raiment, and a
smoldering wood fire, some handy
utensils, made the whole presentment
tramplike in its suggestiveness.
Poor fellOw!" soliloquized Matt.
AT the rhymes again, suppose. Hi
l say-famous luck!' he added, with
a kind of hilarious cheer to his tones,
for the other had suddenly awakened.
Erick Doane glanced lingeringly at
the basket and then inquisitively at the
face of the other.
"You sold the poem?" he questioned
eagerly.
II did, and no trouble at all. Oswald
& Ewing just exactly grabbed It, and
sayl ordered another one for big
sale they've got on for Saturday. I
got two dollars. and we're fitted out
,x,sth x,to thran do hnn
pened to mention about you and our
fix, and the head of the firm got quite
interested, and said he'd double the
price If you made the poem funny
one"
"Now, isn't that fine!' cried Erick
his wan face aglow with pleasure.
"Cheap, too cheap" declared Matt,
wagglng his head sapiently. "Why, If
we We're fixed so you were comfortable
and easy in your mind, you could turn
out regular high-up magazine stuff, or
get out book and all that, and make
a fortune In year."
That's dream, Matt" said Erick,
sorrowfully, "You overestimate me,
dear old fellow that you are. I can
Jingle together few simple rhymes,
but real poetry takes genius, and I'm
long way from having that"
"Is that so?" vociferated Matt storm
lily. II know better What did we do
at the last town, where you wrote
dedication poem on new city hall
they were putting up? Five dollars
from the orator of the occasion. And
the little two-line rhymes you got up
for party of some young folks. Ten
cents apiece, and forty of them. Say,
Albert Tennyson would have dotted on
you, and Lord Byron would have made
you his close pal"
Erlck smiled indulgently, and then
the two fell to discussing the edibles
the basket contained. They were
tramps, homeless, friendless, but one
was poet in a way, and the other
had great purpose in view and they
were by no means of the ordinary drift
Of hoboes.
Matt Burns, true professional. had
picked up Erick Doane, who was the
poorly paid clerk of cheap lodging
house. The latter was frail, sickly, un-
able to do a mans work, and physi-
clan had told him that he could not
live long unless he located permanent
ly In warm climate.
Big-hearted Matt took fancy to the
young fellow. He grew proud of his
poetic efforts, he experienced certain
satisfaction In becoming "the patron
Of man of genius"
"Tve adopted you, Erick," he said
one day. I'm going to get you to Flor
ida before the cold sets in, and bunk
down In some snug spot there, and you
shall develop your literary abilities
while l work the roads, see?" And
now they were carrying out the pro-
gram.
"What's the new screed, Erick"
inquired Matt, as he noticed the folded
sheet lying on the grass.
"Oh, that is set of rhymes of the
love Sort" answered Erick casually.
II never was In love, but that's the
kind of stuff l would write If were."
"Send it to some magazine, Erick,"
suggested Matt, "and maybe you'll
catch on"
But Erick smiled obviously, for he
knew that he was simply rhymester
and not a poet. And when next he
sought to show his love verses to Matt
later on, the wind had blown them
away or something else was respOn,
sible for their mysterious disappear.
ance.
This was responsible: dog, smart
little fox terrier, trained by its indul-
gent master to carry small packages In
its teeth. Unnoticed by either of the
tramps, little Gyp had scurried across
the grass, picked up the folded sheet,
and holding it daintily. scampered back
to the side of its strolllng master.
Waldron ROssiter noticed that his
canine favorite was carrying scrap
of paper in his mouth, but that was not
uncommon, and he bestowed only cas-
ual attention upon the circumstance,
He was thinking of Meta Brice, and
certain trace of Inconsistencies was
apparent in stride and manner as he
passed the house where the beloved
one lived. Rossiter was Of a shy, re.
firing nature, and he simply lifted his
hat to Meta Brice on the porch and
passed on
Not so Gyp; Miss Meta had fed
him too many daintes to be forgotten.
The animal darted in through the gate
way, deposited the love poem at Net