“Poot!” Florence exclaimed airily. “I didn’t want anything to do with their ole paper.  But anyway I didn’t make fun o’ their callin’ it ’The North End Daily Oriole’ till after they said I couldn’t be in it. Then I did, you bet!”

“Florence, don’t say——­”

“Mamma, I got to say somep’n!  Well, I told ’em I wouldn’t be in their ole paper if they begged me on their bented knees; and I said if they begged me a thousand years I wouldn’t be in any paper with such a crazy name and I wouldn’t tell ’em any news if I knew the President of the United States had the scarlet fever!  I just politely informed ’em they could say what they liked, if they was dying I declined so much as wipe the oldest shoes I got on ’em!”

“But why wouldn’t they let you be on the paper?” her mother insisted.

Upon this Florence became analytical.  “Just so’s they could act so important.”  And she added, as a consequence, “They ought to be arrested!”

Mrs. Atwater murmured absently, but forbore to press her inquiry; and Florence was silent, in a brooding mood.  The journalists upon the fence had disappeared from view, during her conversation with her mother; and presently she sighed, and quietly left the room.  She went to her own apartment, where, at a small and rather battered little white desk, after a period of earnest reverie, she took up a pen, wet the point in purple ink, and without great effort or any critical delayings, produced a poem.

It was in a sense an original poem, though like the greater number of all literary projections, it was so strongly inspirational that the source of its inspiration might easily become manifest to a cold-blooded reader.  Nevertheless, to the poetess herself, as she explained later in good faith, the words just seemed to come to her;—­doubtless with either genius or some form of miracle implied; for sources of inspiration are seldom recognized by inspired writers themselves.  She had not long ago been party to a musical Sunday afternoon at her Great-Uncle Joseph’s house, where Mr. Clairdyce sang some of his songs again and again, and her poem may have begun to coagulate within her then.

THE ORGANEST

BY FLORENCE ATWATER

The organest was seated at his organ in a church,
In some beautiful woods of maple and birch,
He was very weary while he played upon the keys,
But he was a great organest and always played with ease,
When the soul is weary,
And the wind is dreary,
I would like to be an organest seated all day at the organ,
Whether my name might be Fairchild or Morgan,
I would play music like a vast amen,
The way it sounds in a church of men.

Florence read her poem seven or eight times, the deepening pleasure of her expression being evidence that repetition failed to denature this work, but on the contrary, enhanced an appreciative surprise at its singular merit.  Finally she folded the sheet of paper with a delicate carefulness unusual to her, and placed it in her skirt pocket; then she went downstairs and out into the back yard.  Her next action was straightforward and anything but prudish; she climbed the high wooden fences, one after the other, until she came to a pause at the top of that whereon the two journalists had lately made themselves so odiously impressive.