“Now, you see, miss, the item includes the main facts in the case, and—”
“Sir!” said the young lady indignantly. “There is nothing of the kind intimated in the poem. The lines are imaginary and are intended to express the sorrow of a poet’s friend at his untimely demise.”
“Why, miss,” said the night editor, “it plainly refers to midnight oil, and a crash, and when the light blew up the gent was left for dead in the room.”
“You horrid thing,” said the young lady, “give me my manuscript. I will bring it back when the literary editor is in.”
“I’m sorry,” said the night editor as he handed her the roll. “We’re short on news tonight, and it would have made a nice little scoop. Don’t happen to know of any accidents in your ward: births, runaways, holdups, or breach of promise suits, do you?”
But the slamming of the door was the only answer from the fair poetess.
Just for a Change
The “lullaby boy” to the same old tune,
Who abandons his drum and toys,
For the purpose of dying in early June,
Is the kind the public enjoys.
But, just for a change please sing us a song,
Of the sore-toed boy that’s fly,
And freckled, and mean, and ugly, and strong,
And positively will not die.