The Elk Mountain pilot., 1921-09-29

30 much3"
that's where they 20 to watch
what the news is." Florence explained
morosely. ''They think they're 81
grand. sittin' up there, pokin' around.
They go other places. too; and they
ask people. That's all they said 1
could be !" Here the lady's bitterness
became strongly intensified. "They
said, maybe 1 could be one O. the ones
they asked If 1 knew anything. some
times. If they happen to think of it!
just respectf'ly told 'em I'd decline to
wipe my oldest shoes on 'em to save
their livesi"
Mrs. Atwater sighed. ''You mustn't
use such expressions, Florence"
II don't see why not" the daughter
objected. They're lot more refined
than the expressions they used on
mel"
'Then I'm very glad you didn't play
with them"
But at this. Florence once more
gave way to flial despair. MAMA,
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 II,
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 q year. collect-in-ad-
vance because they want the money
h1t; and even papa gave 'em a quar-
ter last night; he told me So"
How often do they publish their
paper. Florence7" Mrs. Atwater In
ouired somewhat absently, having re-
sumed her sewing.
Every week: and they're goin' TO
have the first one a week from to-
day."
What do they call itr'
The North End Daily Oriole. It's
the silliest name I ever heard for a
newspaper; and told 'em so. 1 told
EN- what l thought of 1t, l guess!"
"Was that the reason?" Mrs. At
! water asked.
L '" ao A. "hht iCdSoil,
"Was 1t the reason they wouldn't
let you be a reporter with them?"
| "Pooh" Florence exclaimed airily.
Il didn't want anything to do with
their ole paper. But anyway 1 didn't
make fun O. their calm 1t the North
End Daily Oriole till after they said
l couldn't be In it. Then l did, you
bet!"
Florence, don't say"
Mama. got to say somep'mi Well,
I told 'em 1 wouldn't be in their ole
paper If they begged me on their bent
ed knees; and l said If they begged
me thousand years 1 wouldn't be
In any paper with such crazy name
and I wouldn't tell 'em any news If
l knew the President of the United
States had the scarlet feverl 1 just
politely Informed 'em they could say
what they liked If they was dying; |
declined SO much as wipe the Oldest
shoes I got on emp
"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 i'm
portant" And she added. as a con-
sequence: "They ought to be arrest
ed"
Mrs. Atwater murmured absently,
but forbore to press her inquiry: and
Florence was silent, in a 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 a small and rather
battered little white desk, after pc
Rod Of earnest reverie. she took up
q pen. wet the point In purple ink. and
without any great effort or any criti.
cal delayings. produced a poem.
1t was. In 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 a 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..
Cairdyce, 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 orgnnest was seated at his organ
In a church.
In some beautiful woods of maple and
birch.
He was very weary while he played upon
the keys.
But he was a great orRanest and ALWAYS