* * * * *
"GOODBYE."
Falling leaf and fading tree,
Lines of white in a sullen sea,
Shadows rising on you and me—
The swallows are making them ready to fly.
Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye!
Goodbye!
Hush! A voice from the far away!—
"Listen and learn," it seems to say,
"All the to-morrows shall be as to-day."
The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry.
The ink must break and the lamp must die.
Goodbye, Hope! Goodbye!
Goodbye!
What are we waiting for? Oh! my heart,
Kiss me straight on the brows and part!
Again! again! My heart! my heart!
What are we waiting for, you and I?
A pleading look—a stifled cry—
Goodbye forever! Goodbye!
Goodbye!
Whyte Melville.
MAKIN' AN EDITOR OUTEN 0' HIM.
"Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body today?
I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.
But layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy, Jim;
And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him.
He aint no great shakes for to labour, though I've laboured with him a
good deal,
And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to
feel;
But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big,
Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig.
I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs,
And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs;
And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women indoors;
There's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions of chores;
But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm
afraid.
So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade.
His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim,
But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!
It aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn;
He could feed the machine, I am thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to
turn.
And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do;
Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right
through.
I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how;
But 'tis most of it made by machinery, I can see it all plain enough now.
And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs,
Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines;
An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've
a whim,
If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' Jim!"
The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye,
Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made a reply:
"Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both?
Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath?
Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek?
Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week?
Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce?
Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once?
Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch?
And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how not to know too
much?
Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride?
Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros hide?
Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage,
and vim?
If so, we, perhaps, can be makin' an editor outen o' him.'"
The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread,
And he said: "Jim, I guess we'll be goin', he's probably out of his head."