Judge — April 25, 1885 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

feeling sure that I could beat that old tor toise teamster by a hundred lengths, even | though I should wait till he was out of sight before I started. But there was the rub, I did not calculate on giving an art exhibit at every house on my way, So in the flush of youth I started afoot and alone, across lots to deliver my char; ‘As soon as I got tothe top of the hill, I thought I could easier go the rest of the way on the sidewalk, so I got over the fence and commenced the descent of Avenues, figuratively speaking. As I was going past Captain’ Smith's, the venerable gentleman caught sight of Colonel Simpkins’s physiognomy, and he shouted: ** Say, young man, where are you going with old * Hawk Hunter's” pictur? Let me se him. We used to call him ‘ Hawk Hante because him and Black Hawk was always huntin’ for each other in the Revolutionary times. Yes, that’s him exactl. I remem- ber when he had that pictur tos By this time all the Smith family were out, and Beatrice had been criticised by the whole varty, and also by a large delegation that d come through the yard from the other street. At last I managed to get my pictures getaway, but only to meet new obstacle: This time it was dof blooming, blush- ing school girls, and one of them shouted after me: ** Say, can’t you let us see?” This, of course, appealed to my. sensibility very much more than anything else could, and my natural affability to the ntler gender kept me talking to them, ’till I saw Mrs, Simpkins loom in sight, and heard her shout: “Suy, you! Tdon’t pay you and board you to stop and talk with the girls.” This let me way down, for I am s would have made at least three * m had staid away and kept still. event was what hurried me in my decision to to become a literary man, and [know I have voived the sentiment of many fellow s in paragraph, "oP ke d S$. RYMAN, TOO DAMP Panwen—" Ife Depe (angrilt) Fanen FOR A DUDE: for the crops Trout be a mighty poor payin He Would Write a Verse. Sue was the most bewitching belle, with dark, wavy hair, and eyes whose brightness rivalled the flashing goms at her throat. She clasped her tiny white hands and ex- claimed, ** Oh Mr. W—— can’t you write a verse in my album : Of course I could.” And won't you I would; at smiled in | please?” | least I said I would, and Tennyson-Longfellow confidence at the simp! of the operation. 1 took the book promising to dash off something at my earliest convenience, as if the compos tion of poetry came as naturally to me as the te THE JUDGE. growth of my beard. After lunch I retired to my room and in- structing the servant that I was ‘not at home,” locked the door and cheerfully pro- ceeded to unlock my d and arrange the writing mater I felt the divine inspira- tion stealing over my poetic soul, and de termined to address a tender ode to my charming friend, With a the pen I began: graceful sweep of LINES TO MISS B—., iy Mer Admtrer Thou beauteous creature from the sunay climet Thou — — thou——. But I stuck right there and couldn’t vance another letter, all my boasted inspira- tion had taken the wings that were handiest d fled to the uttermost parts of the earth, ving me to stare v a quire of ented note-paper, and wonder if it. wasn’t most morning. I consulted my watch—half past nine ‘Time dragged. Texamined my pen, filled up the ink-bottle, and fell to criticising my poor little collection of words. She was be but wasn’t the sunny clime” business slightly fictitious? How did I know where she came from? I didn’t —it plainly wouldn’t do. I must try again: Thou sweet Adonis Hold! Adonis was not a girl—I'll put my foot into it if continue. Once more: Thou Trans! rand inconsistent dove red by my heart-felt love— Of course love’s heart-felt, but the rest of that don’t sound highly complimentary Well, one can’t stop for trifles at a time like this: so here gc [Sincere —bees—steur—deer—fear—clear, —that’s it.] Altho the lang By this tin 1 this tribute from a heart sincere Thad to rise and bathe my heated brew. Lighting a fragrant weed, I buried my face in my hands, and mentally ved about for a happy thought. ‘The supply on hand didn’t seem to equal the demand, and it was after twelve o'clock. I became desperate and resolved the first thing that oceurred to my tired brain—poctry or prose. E stuck the pen Niciously into the paper and. produced the fol Mary had a litt rwitig Je lamb, its fleece was white as sinew at pen suddenly meandered reom and attacked the wall-paper. the ink-bottle with emphasis, and myself on the bed with a heavy sigh. The next day that albam went home companied hy the following not To Miss B- W regrets his inability zo comply with your tas ie sails for Europe this. ace His phy total cessation of mental effort for across the LT upset threw ac- Mie requi sicans dem: What is Mrs, E.D E. N. Sonthwo.t!s What was it Sir Bulwer Lytton? utiful—no question about that, | to write | How a Poem is put into Type. Dean Miss Miranpa: To the best of our knowledge and belief we will try to answer your question, and de- | scribe how a printer ined to work to put any | thing into type. Tuke, for instance, the poem you were so kind as to enclose to us, ‘A Yearn for Spring,” and if there is any- thing more than something or another which a printer likes to put int during type, it is a poem which has some remote allusion to spring, and ‘* budding trees,” and * lowing bees,” and “ cawing breeze,” and ¢ green,” and *beautcous scene,” and dove,” and ** time of love.” Such a poem always catehes him by the collar, and shakes him till his memory wakes to the thought of the days when he was aspring lamb himself. Well, the printer tukes the poem from the hand of the unsuspecting office-boy, with a pair of silver-pla couple of chips, not plate at the title, and holds it out at arm’s length, and surveys it. He is particular not to touch it with his hands nd soil it, as the news of the world passing through his fingers, is apt to leave them a little dirty. hen he addresses it with a few words from profane history, with * Well, if I ain’t blowed!” meaning that he feels as if he was a spring blossom, just blown, and leaps up two feet with it, and gives a fearful Indian ink war-whoop, because no doubt it is the only spring mess of rhymes he has seen for many years, and hence his enthusiasm, He then tosses it up in the air to ascertain if the weight to it, and catches it on the of his boot. and punches a hole through it with his finger for fear there too much about the wind in it to allow it to lie still, and calls the attention of the most composed compositors to it. Next, throwing it to the floor and dancing around it, he spits a little sort of printer's trad | with his heel, by way shape, which means ge Rolling it s the room and | printer where poem toe amber on it, asa mark, and stamps it al, horseshoe ways, di luck, into a wad, he throws it hits d-headed old his hair used to be, who hurls it buch. with an explosive, to encourage it on the way. The first printer then throws it into the bucket of pure whi er in which the men p their hands for a week, and this lends a certain softness to the tone of the poem, and what is crooked in it is easily made straight; this also shows if the poem will wash up Hero: uri Laying tunes tos out if the it on thecase, he tries a good many which one will to find metre is all right. It the stick in his left hand, and beg it with type, upside down, or down side up, it doesn’t matter, with his itas fast as he can, whistling away on the air he has adapted it to, and 1 tuking off his nose the clothes pin which he puton when he poem su as not to absorb spring essed. Whe comes exhansted ver pming. aver it po: he has got it all set up, the editor and sets it up to him, in case he is and Is him his fan. A proof is sometimes taken, and. the proof reader, looking over it, good deal of it is out of fix, but remembering that springs work itself is ull variety, he lets it go, rather than to try to improve on nature, and. spoil it more. So, Miranda, you will net growl when you it in print Send us next a poem o Broken Love,” and we will go more into | details. A.W. BELLAW. comicbooks.com