“Magpie,” says I, “a editor likes to see his stuff printed. I got a old piece of paper what will do for this.”
Magpie sets the stuff in a little oblong affair, rolls on some ink, lays on the piece of paper, and twists down the handle. This is how she looks:
TAR ON TOMBSTONE
He was a bad man from Willer Crick.
On his birthday suit grows feathers thick.
Feathers and tar instead of a grave,
Mistook for an editor ’cause of a shave.
Magpie reads it all through. He sets down on a box, rolls a smoke, and reads it some more. He walks out to the door, looks around, and comes back.
“Who?” he asks.
“Paradise folks, Magpie.”