Year: 1875

our readers, have long felt with us the un-

 fortunate absence of the pleasing feature

 of original poetry in these columns. Under

 the management of it's former sole pro- prietor there was no possibility of remedy | ing this defect. While this former sole

 proprietor could manipulate prose with

 telling force, regard for the truth forces us

 to confess that he was not at home on the Tyre. He couldn't even write such origin

 al poetry as the Atlantic Monthly pays

 nice prices for, much less such as could be

 published with any personal safety in an

 enterprising newspaper. 1t is within our

 knowledge that he always felt very bitter

 towards Providence for this total absence

 of the poetic element in his nature, and

 we happen to know personally that upon

 two occasions-the great fire at Chicago,

 and the death of Sumner-he m ade almost superhuman efforts to overcome his defect.

 But in vain, alas, in vain. And were it

 not breach of confidence, we could in- form the reader that two years ago, when the gentleman referred to was in Phila- deiphia, a prominent position on the editorial staff of the principal newspaper of that city, was offered him, but the

 poetic feature in the obituary notices, which would fall to his share of the labor, compelled him to reluctantly decline the position.

 But necessity, the great mother-in-law of poetry, is like at last to help us out of our dilemma. We have been compelled through pressure of business to take new partner in this journal and through the best of fortune, we now almost believe that he have not only got the partner we bargained for but the poet whom we so much needed.

 The first time our eyes rested upon the countenance of this new partner, we thought we detected germs of the poetic spirit. We immediately placed him under the closest mental surveillance and were rewarded with increasing signs of the sus- pected faculty. Knowing how coy and shy IS the spirit of the tuneful nine, we cautiously abstained from soliciting his confidence in the matter, trusting that the lone dove from the ark of his poetic fancy would in time seek the dry land of our 

 inward chuckle of complacency when the new partner asked us, few evenings since, Co call on him as he had something he wished to speak of We called, and after the usual preliminaries, he arose and go- ing to his wood box drew therefrom small manuscript; then seating himself near the fitful light Of the open fire, (he had eXtinguished the lamp to increase the effect,) our friend spoke thus: ''FitZjOnes, my dear fellow, you can't imagine with what reluctance l have been induced to contide in you about a certain matter. l the theme with the greatest heSitancy." Most idiots would have here the speaker with assurances of sympathy. We knew our business bet ter and merely bowed an attentive ear. In fact both ears. Our friend continued: "I hope you will not be uncomfortably sur prised when I tell you that have for a long time felt poetic aspirations, and now prompts me to unbosOm myself to you. To the bes. of my knowl edge and belief I never ascended the heights of Parnassus nor drank of the Castalian spring; but notwithstanding these drawbacks I constantly feel poetic and have lately plumed my new f1edged wing and essayed a virgin flight, which I should like to submit to you, and ask you what you think of it for a starter. The poem is entitled, Lines to Refugia,' and the first verse opens as fol- lows:

 "The moonlight kissed the acequia blue. Where it sleeps meath the cottonwood

 trees."

 When our friend had read these two lines we abruptly stopped him on the spot. We couldn't keep silent any longer. The reader must recollect that we are human; that we had for a long time mourned over the total absence of original poetry Tn our paper; and while we were confident that our instinct was correct and that the new partner would develop something nice in the poetic line, still this beautiful crea- ton was too much and o'ercame us like summers dream. Our surcharged heart poured forth a flood of congratulations We said: "This is overpowering, my boy; who would have thought it. Why leaving out of consideration the musical flow of the words and the tenderness of the senti- ment, the very profuseDeSS of imagination which must have been required to con- ceive of the 'acequia blue,' in that first line would have bankrupted Byron and when published, will drive Joaquin Miller into Senile helplessness and chagrn." Our friend was viSibiy affected by our en- cOmiumS, and serene smile fitted across hi nd lDaSSpd into hiSfnry