Part 10 (1/2)

Anthy laughed. ”No,” she said, ”it isn't Robert Burns. Fergus measures everything by 'The Twa Dogs.'”

”Whur'll ye do better?” responded Fergus.

”No,” said Nort, warming up to his argument and convincing himself, I think, as he went along, ”but I say it's interesting, and it's by people in Hempfield, and it's news. What could be a better personal item than a poem by--who was it, Miss Doane?”

”Sophia Rhinehart.”

”The poet Sophia! Think of all of Sophia's cousins and uncles and aunts, and all the people in Hempfield, who will be shocked to know that Sophia has written a poem on woman suffrage.”

”That's what I object to,” boomed the Captain, ”it's nonsense.”

As I look back upon it now, it seems absurd, the irresistible way in which Nort swept the orfunts of the _Star_ before him in his enthusiasm.

A country newspaper office is one of the most democratic inst.i.tutions in the world. The whole force, from proprietor down, works together and changes work. The editor is also compositor, and the compositor and office boy are reporters. No one poses as having any very superior knowledge, and it sometimes happens that a printer, like Fergus, comfortably drawing his regular wages, is better off for weeks at a time than the hara.s.sed proprietor himself.

Nort drew the poems, a big disorderly package of them, out of the editorial drawer, and read some of them aloud in his best manner, his face gleaming with amus.e.m.e.nt. Occasionally he would glance across at Anthy as if for approval. Anthy's face was a study. While it was evident that she was puzzled and uncertain, I could see that Nort was carrying her wholly with him. It was the common spirit of youth, adventure, daring--the common joy of revolt.

The upshot of the matter was that the office worked early and late during the next two or three days setting poetry. We chose mostly the short poems, including a veritable school of limericks, and in each case printed the name of the author in good large type. Some of the verses, to judge by their appearance, must have been in the office for several years--from the days of Anthy's father. Anthy's father had never destroyed the verses sent to him; he kept them, but rarely printed any of them. He had so deep a fondness for human beings, understood them so well, and Hempfield had come to be so much his own family to him, that he kept all these curious outreachings, whether of sorrow, or humour, or of mere empty exuberance or sentimentality. Often he laughed at them--but he kept them. Anthy had much the same deep feeling--which the Nort of that time could not have understood. She felt that there was something not quite sound about Nort's brilliant scheme, but when she objected or protested about some particular poem, Nort always swept her away with his eager, ”Oh, put her in, put her in!”

For the top of the page Fergus set a heading, proofed it, and showed it to Nort.

”Not big enough,” said Nort. ”Got anything larger?”

Fergus thought he had, and presently returned with a heading in regular poster type:

POEMS OF HEMPFIELD

I can see Nort yet, holding it up for us to view, and shouting:

”Bully boy, Fergus, that'll get 'em!”

We introduced the poetry with a statement that for several years the _Star_ had received poems, written by the citizens of the town and county, very few of which had been published. We presented them to our readers as one expression of the life, thought, and interests of our town.

On Wednesday--we went to press Wednesday afternoon--Nort came in from dinner with a broad smile on his face.

”Got another poem,” he said.

”Humph,” growled Fergus, who knew that he would have to set it up.

”I stopped at the corner as I came along, and old John Tole was standing out in front of his store.” Here Nort, thrusting both hands into his rear trousers pockets, leaned a little back and gave a perfect imitation of the familiar figure of our town druggist. ”'Mr. Tole,' I said, 'the _Star_ is going to print the poems of Hempfield this week. Haven't you a favourite poem you can put in?' Well, you should have seen the old fellow grin. 'Yes,' says he, 'I've got a favour-ite poem.' I asked him what it was. He kept on smiling, and finally he said:

'I keep a plaster, in case of disaster, And also a pill, in case of an ill.'”

Nort shook with laughter.

”George! I wish you could have heard him repeat it: 'And also a pi-ll in case of an i-ll.'”

He had the whole office laughing with him.