The Editor's Leisure Hour.

Clutha Leader, Volume XII, Issue 603, 5 February 1886, Page 2

The Editor's Leisure Hour.

A Faint Call. Deacon Jones (from Out of town) : ' I am deputed to learn, Mr Goodman, if a " call " from our church would likely be favorably entertained by you?' Minister : • H'm ! It would depend somewhat, I think Mr Jones, upon — cr — circumstances.' Deacon : * Ah, yes, I see. We dis- j j cussed the matter in rather an informal way, and the sense of the majority seemed to be that — cr — about 900 dollars ' Minister : ' H'm 1 Yes. I am afraid, Mr Jones, that the good people whom you represent will have to " call " a little louder than that.' * * * Was it Poison ? Frank Brewer, a favorite minstrel of olden time, walked into a bar-room one morning, dusty and unkempt from a long journey, and asked for a glass of brandy. The barkeeper handed out the brandy, and then, snspi cious of Frank's appearance, said, ' Just pay for that before you drink it, will you V Frank, who was as well known in New York as any man about town, looked up, astonished, and stammered, ' W-w---what V ' Just pay for that brandy before you drink it,' repeated tlie barman. 'Why,' said Frank, leaning confidentially across the counter, * is it so itn-m-mediately f-f-fatal in its effect V * * * "Waking" the Wrong Passenger. He was the greenest old man you ever saw. He looked round the passenger coach in a way to prove that he had never entered one before, and he sat down so softly and seemed to be so afraid of damaging something, that all the passengers -smiled. By-and-bye a young man went over and sat down beside him. This young man might have been directed by filial affection, and he might not. ' Which way, uncle V he softly asked. 'Me 1 ? Oh, I'm going to see my darter in Connecticut.' ' Ever travel much V ' This is the first time I was ever on the keers. I've driff off seventeen miles with the oxen to see my other darter, but oxen haint no comparison to these keers.' ' I should say not. It takes a lot of money to go to Connecticut and back.' ' Drefful lot, but I jist sold the farm, you know.' ' I presume you could change a hundred-dollar bill for me V ' Oh, jist as well as not.' ' I may want you to by-and-bye. This is good weather, eh ? 'Straordinary weather fur fall. James has been worried about his corn, but I guess it's all safe.' Nothing further was said for some time, the old man looking out of the window and the young man reading a paper. The train made a few stops, and the car was so warm that after a while the old man began to yawn and nod. He fought it off for ten minutes, but at last his head fell back, and his gentle snores mingled with the roar of the wheels. A slim white hand with tapering fingers rested on his leg, then it was elevated to his breast. Its touch was that of a feather. Its movement was that of a serpent creeping forward to strike. The fingers touched an oldfashioned wallet. The young man continued to read,. and the old man slept on. Inch by inch the wallet was lifted from its snug resting-place, and the hand was almost ready to remove it entirely, when something happened. With a sudden move of his right hand the old man pinned the interloper fast, and his voice was heard calling : — '. You blamed skunk ! But I knowed all the time what you were after ! Where's the conductor V There was a rush of passengers, and they found a helpless, confused pickpocket and an indignant, but elated old man. y - • Consarn his picktur', but he took me fur an ole hayseed from a back medder ! Work roots on me, will ye ! Sat a trap for me and fall into it yerself, eh?' Even a professional pickpocket hadn't I cheek enough to urge a single excuse. The fellow hadn't one blessed, word to say, and was walked off to the baggage car to be kicked to the platforro at the next station.

'Ye see,' said the old man, as he turned to the inquiring passengers, * I hadn't orter done it. When a man has been a constable, sheriff, or drover all his days, travelling all over and meetin' all sorts of folks, he hadn't orter play off greenhorn and break a young man's heart like this, but I felt sort o' reckless this mornin', I must put a curb on my speerits ; I'm gettin' too old to be playin' jokes on confidin' young men.' * * * They Can Be. They were talking about the chances of ever civilizing the Indians, and how nice it would be if they could all be converted to Ohristahity, when one of them turned to a grizzly old chap in the seat behind and said : • Is it your opinion that the Indians can be civilized V •Oh, yes.' • Have you l>een among them much T 'Spent twenty-five years out there, sir.' •Then you must know whereof. you speak. What preliminary steps do you consider necessary T •Wall, I'd git a double-barrelled shot-gun.' ' •Ah !' • And put a handful of buckshot into each barrell.' 'Ah!' " • And stand off about 20ft. and let him have both barrels at once ! If he don't come to it after that you may know he's too old to practice civilisatshun on. Anything further, gents f They had no further inquiries to make * * * " More Copy "—An Editor's Plaint. Once in autumn, wet and dreary, weak and weary, sat this writer, pondering o'er a memorandum book of itehis used before (books of scrawling head-notes, rather j items taking days to gather them, in hot and sultry weather, using up much time and leather) pondered we those items o'er. While we conned them, slowly rocking (through our mind queer notions flocking), came a quick and nervous knocking — knocking at the sanctum door. ' Sure that must be Jinks,' we muttered — 'Jinks that's knocking at our door — Jinks, the everlasting bore.' Ah, how well do we remind us, in the walls which then confined us, the papers that lay behind us, and before us, and around us, all scattered o'er the floor. Thought we, 'Jinks he wants to borrow some old papers for tomorrow, and 'twill be relief from sorrow to get rid of Jinks the bore, by opening wide the door.' Still the yisitor kept knocking — knocking louder than before. And the scattered piles of papers madly cut some curious capers, being lifted by a breeze coming through another door ; and we wished (the wish was evil, for ono deemed. always civil) that Jinks was at the devil, there to stay to find his level — Jinks, the nerve-unstringing bore ! Bracing up our patience firmer, then, without another murmur. 'Mr Jinks,' said we, 'your pardon, your forgiver ness we implore. But the fact, is, we were reading of some curious proceeding, and thus it was, unheeding yonr loud knocking there before ' here we opened wide the door. But fancy now our feelings — for it wasn't Jinks the bore — Jinks, nameless evermore! But the form that stood before us caused a trembling to come o'er us, and memory quickly bore us back, again to days of yore— days when ' items ' were in plenty, and where'er this writer went he picked up interesting items by the score. 'Twas the form of him our ' devil,' in an attitude uncivil ; and he thrust his head within the open door, with » The printer's opt o' copy, sir, and says he wants some more.' Yes, like Alexander, wanted more 1 Now, this ' local ' hod already walked about till nearly dead ; he had sauntered through the city till his feet were very sore — walked through the street called market, and by-ways running off into the portions of the town both public and obscure; hptd examined shop and cellar, and had questioned every ' feller ' whom he met, from door to door, if anything was 1 , stirring — any accident occurring — nofc published heretofore — and had met witn no success ; and he would rather guess, he felt a ' little wicked at that ugly little bore, with the message from the printer that he wanted 'something more.' ' Now, 'tis time you were departing you sad scamp !' cried we, upstarting ; 'get you back into your officey-office where you were before, other Vords that you have spoken will soon( get your bones all broken ' (and we seized a cudgel, oaken, that was lying on the floor) ; * take your .hands out of your pockets and leave i the sanctum door ! tell the printer there's no copy, yo*n ugly little bore !' Quoth the devil, ' Send him more !' And our devil, never sitting, still ig flitting, still is flitting to and fro upoi^ the landing just outside the'sartctum door. Tears adown his cheeks are streaming — strange light from his eye] • is beaming — and his voice is heard/ ' still screaming, ' Sir, the printer wants some more!' — And our soul, pierced with that screaming, is awakened frpraits dreaming, and has lost the peaceful feeling that we ever had before; for j the fancy will come o'er us, thjat each reader's face before us bears the horrid / words—' We want a little more !'