and I wasn't strong before. Go down and set it all
up."

Mr. Schofield rejoined with an injured air, and yet hopefully: "I'd like
to see what you think of the poetry--it seemed all right to me, but I
reckon you ain't ever the best judge of your own work. Shall I read it?"
The foreman only glanced at him in silence, and the young man took this
for assent. "I haven't made up any name for it yet."

"'O, the orphan boy stood on the hill,
The wind blew cold and very chill--'"

Glancing at his auditors, he was a trifle abashed to observe a glaze
upon the eyes of Mr. Parker, while a purple tide rose above his
neck-band and unnaturally distended his throat and temples. With a
placative little laugh, Mr. Schofield remarked: "I git the swing to her
all right, I reckon, but somehow it doesn't sound so kind of good as
when I was writing it." There was no response, and he went on hurriedly:

"'But there he saw the little rill--'"

The poet paused to say, with another amiable laugh: "It's sort of hard
to git out of them ill, hill, chill rhymes once you strike 'em. It runs
on like this:

"'--Little rill
That curved and spattered around the hill.'

"I guess that's all right, to use 'hill' twice; don't you reckon so?

"'And the orphan he stood there until
The wind and all gave him a chill;
And he sickened--'"

That day Ross read no more, for the tall printer, seemingly incapable
of coherent speech, kicked the desk impotently, threw his arms above
his head, and, his companions confidently looking to see him foam at the
mouth, lost his balance and toppled over backward, his extensive legs
waving wildly in the air as he struck the floor. Mr. Schofield fled.

Parker made no effort to rise, but lay glaring at the ceiling, breathing
hard. He remained in that position for a long time, until finally the
glaze wore away from his eyes and a more rational expression settled
over his features. Mr. Fisbee addressed him timidly: "You don't think we
could reduce the size of the sheet?"

"It would kill him," answered his prostrate companion. "We've got to
fill her solid some way, though I give up; I don't know how. How that
man has worked! It was genius. He just floated around the county and
soaked in items, and he wrote editorials that people read. One thing's
certain: we can't do it. We're ruining his paper for