[For the Cambridge
Press]
Showing
Up The Editor.
___
BY JOE CONE.
____
In one of the
numerous picturesque New England farming sections dwelt a young poet, or not
really a poet, but one of these “thought he was” poets. You doubtless
have heard of them; the air is full of their inspired lyrics and non-inspired
lamentations. But this one, in truth, could scratch around a hill of
“pertaters” and do a far more artistic job than he could in scratching out a
sonnet. Not in his own opinion, however, but in the opinion of an editor who
lived in a town a few miles from where the poet mused and suffered. He would
write or hoe as the spirit moved him, and the editor received regularly the products
of his pen, and his father the products of his hoe; but it is safe to say that
the editor received the greater.
For a long time
editor and poet had kept up a continued correspondence, tho’ it was really all
on the poet’s side. He sent manuscript after manuscript, but back they came one
after another as regularly as he sent them.
He was discouraged; about ready to commit suicide; the world didn’t
appreciate him, but long after he was dead the world would be sorry. Yet, he
would try once more; he would try a new scheme and closely watch the result.
Some of his poems were very good; he was improving and needed encouragement,
but he would try the editor on a different tack. So, taking an old volume of
English poetry, he copied one of the fairest it contained word for word, and
putting his own name underneath, sent it as he had his own before. “By gum,”
muttered the poet, “I’ll bet he’s never seed that afore, an’ he won’t know but
what I writ it.” A day or teo passed and back it came with N. G. over the top.
“Jes what I thought,” said the poet, and a disappointed poetic grin lit up his
freckled face which gradually emerged into a half-murderous expression.
Soon after he had
occasion to visit the town, and after completing his business arrangements,
headed for the office of his enemy in literature. After walking up and down a
few times he dodged in. ‘Be yeou ther editor uv this establishment?” drawled
out the rustic. “I am the editor of the paper that is printed here,” answered
the party addressed. “Oh, er, yaas I see; well here is suthin’ fer ther paper.”
The editor glanced at it, then handed it back, saying a little sarcastically:
“that is the same nonsense I received the other day; are you the scribbler?” “I
be.” Then, for the first time, knowingly, editor and poet eyed each other. It
was a touching scene! My pen fails me. “Scribbler? nonsense!” drawled out the
countryman; Why yeou ol’ red-faced, bald-headed son of a goose quill, that poem
wus writ by one uv ther best poets in England, an’ yeou thought ’twarn’t good
’nough ter put in yer ol weekly han’
bill, full uv advertisements? Why dum ’f
I ain’t” -; but the editor, with murder in his eye, reached for the
office stool, and the poet shot through to door and around the nearest corner.
He made a solemn
vow on his way home, that, no matter what inducements that editor would ever
hold out in the future, he never would favor him with a contribution again.
E. Cambridge, Mass.
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