Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1921-10-13

"Bnt what do they do on the renee
so much?"
That's where they go to watch
what the news is" Florence explained
morosely. .'They think they're so
grand, sittili up there, p0kin' around.
They so other places, too; and they
ask people. That's all they said /
could be! !" Here the lady's bitterness
became strongly intensified. They
said, maybe | could be one o. the ones
they asked if l knew anything. some
times, if they happen to think of it l
just respectfully told 'em I'd decline to
wipe my oldest shoes on 'em to save
their lives !"
Mrs. Atwater sighed. "You mustn't
use such expressions, Florence"
~ don't see why not" the daughter
objected. They're lot more refined
than the expressions they used on
me-"
Then I'm very glad you didn't play
with Them"
But at this. Florence once more
saw way " utSltdlE. NIdiud,
you just can't see through anything
I've said anyhow fifty times they amt
aren't playingl They're getting up a
real newspaper, and people buy it,
and everything. They have been all
over this part of town and got every
aunt and uncle they have, besides their
own fathers and mothers, and some
people In the neighborhood, and Kitty
Silver and two or three other colored
people besides, that work for families
they know. They're going to charge
twenty-five cents a year, eollect-in-ad-
vance because they want the money
first; and even papa gave 'em quar-
ter last night; he told me So"
How often do they publish their
paper, Florence?" Mrs. Atwater in
quired somewhat absently, having re-
sumed her sewing.
Every week; and they're goin' to
have the first one week from to-
day."
'.What do they call it?'
1.-THE North End Daily 0riole. It's
AhC SiiANSl Il CNCl uCdlu lOI a
newspaper; and told 'em so. l told
'em what I thought Of it, guess y
''Was that the reason?" Mrs. At
water asked.
"Was it what reason, mama?"
"Was it the reason they wouldn't
let you be reporter with them?'
"Poohl" Florence exclaimed airily.
Il didn't want anything to do with
their ole paper. But anyway l didn't
make fun o. their calm it the North
End Daily Oriole till after they said
| couldn't be in it. Then / did, you
betl"
Florence, don't say"
MAMA, I got to say somep'm! Well,
| fold 'em I wouldn't be in their ole
paper if they begged me on their bent
ed knees; and | said if they begged
me a thousand years / wouldn't be
in any paper with such crazy name !;
and 1 wouldn't tell 'em any news if
knew the President of the United
States had the scarlet fever! l just
politely informed em they could say
what they liked if they was dying; l
declined so much as wipe the oldest
shoes / got on 'em! -
But why wouldn't they let you be
on the paper?' her mother insisted
Upon this Florence became analyti-
cal. Just SOS they could act so inn
portant" And she added, as con-
sequence: "They ought to be arrest
ed
Mrs. Atwater murmured absently,
but forbore to press her inquiry and
Florence was silent, in q brooding
mood. The journalists upon the fence
had disappeared from view, during the
conversation with her mother; and
presently she sighed and quietly left
the room. She went to her own apart
ment, where, at small and rather
battered little white desk, after a pc
riod of earnest reverie, she took up
a pen, wet the point in purple ink, and
without any great effort or any criti-
cal delayings. produced a poem.
1t was, in a sense, an original poem ;
though, like the greater number of all
literary offerings, it was so strongly
inspirational that the source of its
inspiration might easily become mani
fest to cold-blooded reader Never
theless, to the poetess herself, as she
explained later in good faith, the words
just seemed to come to her-doubtless
with either genius or some form of
miracle involved; for sources of in
spiratiOn are seldom recognized by in
spired writer's themselves. She had
not long ago been party to musical
Sunday afternoon at her great-uncle
Joseph Atwater's house where Mr..
Clairdyce, that amiable and robust
baritone, sang some of his songs over
and over again, as long as the re-
quests for them held out. Florence's
poem may have begun to coagulate
within her then.
THE ORGANEST
BY Florence Atwater
The organest was seated at his organ