Part 9 (2/2)

”I have just written an editorial on William J. Bryan,” remarked the Captain with deliberation.

”My father always used to say,” said Anthy, ”that the little things of life are really the big things. I didn't used to think so; it used to hurt me to see him waste his life writing items about the visits of the Backuses--you know what visitors the Backuses are--and the big squashes raised by Jim Palmer, and the meetings of the Masons and the Odd Fellows; but I believe he was successful with the _Star_ because he packed it full of just such little personal news.”

”Your father,” I said, ”was interested in people, in everything they did. It was what he _was_.”

”I see that now,” said Anthy.

”And when you come to think of it,” I said, ”we are more interested in people we know than in people we don't know. We can't escape our own neighbourhoods--and most of us don't want to.”

”That's all right,” said Nort; ”but it seems to me since I've been in this town that it is just the things that are most interesting of all that don't get into the _Star_. Why, there's more amusing and thrilling news about Hempfield published every day up there on the veranda of the Hempfield House than gets into the _Star_ in a month. I could publish a paper, at least once, that would----”

”I have always said,” interrupted the Captain, ”that the basic human interest was politics. Politics is the life of the people. Politics----”

Fergus's face cracked open with a smile.

”We might print a few poems.”

He said it in such a tone of ironical humour and it seemed so absurd that we all laughed, except Nort.

Nort stopped suddenly, with his eyes gleaming.

”Why not, Fergus?” he exclaimed. ”Great idea, Fergus.”

With that he took up an envelope from the desk.

”Listen to this now,” he said, ”it came this morning; the Cap'n showed it to me.”

He read aloud with great effect:

A PLEA FOR THE BALLOT

There was a maiden all forlorn, Who milked a cow with a crumpled horn, She churned the b.u.t.ter, and made the cheese, And taught her brothers their A B C's.

She worked and scrubbed till her back was broke, And paid her tax, but she couldn't vote.

Oh! you men look wise and laugh us to scorn, We'll get the ballot as sure as you're born.

”I can guess who wrote _that_!” laughed Anthy. ”It was Sophia Rhinehart.”

”You're right,” said Nort, ”and I say, print it.”

”There's a whole drawer full of poetry like that here in the desk,”

observed the Captain.

”I'll tell you, let's print it all!” said Nort. ”This town is full of poetry. Let's let it out. That's a part of the life of Hempfield which the _Star_ hasn't considered.”

For the life of me I could not tell at the moment whether Nort was joking or not, but Fergus was troubled with no such uncertainty. He took his pipe out of his mouth, poked down the fire with his thumb, and observed:

”'Tain't poetry.”

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