“MOKE COPY.”—An Editor’s Plaint.

Marlborough Express, Volume IV, Issue 153, 16 January 1869, Page 6

“MOKE COPY.”—An Editor’s Plaint.

(A long way) After Longfellow.

Once in Autumn, wet and dreary, sat this writer, weak and weary, pondering o’er a memorandum book of items used before, (book of scrawling head-notes, rather; 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 tfiuttered—“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 to-morrow, and ’twill be relief from sorrow to get rid of Jinks, the bore, by opening wide the door.” Still the visitor 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 one 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,” o said we, “ your pardon, your forgiveness we implore. But the fact is, we were reading of some curious proceeding, and thus it was unheeded your loud knocking there before—” here we opened wide the door. But fancy now our feeling—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 hack 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 out o’-copy, sir, and says he wants some more.” Yes, like Alexander, wanted more! ' Now, this “ local ” had 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 ; had examined shop and cellar, and had questioned every “feller” whom we met, from door to door, if anything was stirring—any accident occurring—not published heretofore—and had met with 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 hack into the office—office where you were before, or the words that you have spoken wilt soon get your hones all broken,” (and we seized a cudgel, oaken, that was lying on the floor), “take your hands out of your pockets and leave this sanctum door; tell the printer there’s no copy, you ugly little bore!” Quoth the devil, “ send him more!”

And dur devil, never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting to and fro upon the landing just outside the sanctum 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 from its dreaming, and has lost the peaceful feeling that we ever had before; for the fancy will come o’er us, that each reader’s face before us, bears the horrid words—“ We want a little more I”