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 butter, 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: