ORIGINAL CORRESPONDENCE.

Oamaru Mail, Volume IV, Issue 1319, 3 November 1880, Page 2

ORIGINAL CORRESPONDENCE.

A SCENE IN WANSBECK-STREET. TO THE EDITOR OF THE OAIIAIIU MAIL. Sir,—To compare little things with big, your contemporary the North Otago Times has a contributory staff similar to that who were accustomed to meet to concoct witty scintillations for London Punch. The Editor, with the assistance of such a staff, in yesterday's issue, parodied a portion of a well-known poem. He thus attempted to deal a blow at his beta uoir the junior Member for Waitaki. On the night preceding the day on which the concoction appeared in yourcontemporary, the North Otago Times office was, it is rumoured, the scene of proceedings a recital of which, I think, will prove interesting. On the memorable night in question, the Editor rushed, as usual, to the library, whence he draws those of his articles which set the readers of your contemporary a thinking—thinking, I mean, that they have seen the ideas, if not the precise language, somewhere before. He searched, and searched, till his eyes grew dim and his great soul was wearj\ Were . his books that had so often befriended him going to fail him at last ? No. Here was one—of poetiy, of course ( the Editor worships at the shrine of the Muses), and it, like most things for which one seeks, turned up just as he was abandoning all hope. " All 1" said, he, " this will do. The fellow beat us over that election ; but the language of this brother great poet, with a few touches of mine here and there, to give it an original aspect, will make him winoe now." Here a knock came at the door of his room, which was locked—he always does lock his door when he is writing his leaders—and there ho sat with his heated brow swathed in a moistened towel, and beads of perspiration issuing from his nose. H_e crept to the.door-—creatures of his kind do creep—drew back the bolt with his remaining strength, and there stood before him Proprietor No. 1. ! " Hang that follow, Jones," and imprecations on the head of the intruder were intermingled with snatches of the profound poetical effusion, " Georgey Jones broke his bones tumbling over cherry, stones."

"Why do you in'ieiTupt me when I am writing my leaders," said Scissoi'3 1 " The cemps. are crying for copy," pleaded Proprietor l\o. 1. "Yon. might have had a leader long since," retorted Scissors, " bun my paste has run out through a hole in the "bottom of my pastepot, and my scissors are worn to a stump," " Bang your pastepot, the Christchurch newspaper men dubbed you appropriately ' Scissors-aud-Paste.' " " What did you expect at such a salary. Common reporters on other papers get a better screw than I do as Editor." "Editor indeed ! you old cummer ; our reporter is worth a dozen of yon, yoi: would make a better billsticker." Look at our accounts for Hour, ironmongery, and brushware." * " Well, I have lambed that fellow Jones, and I am concocting a splendid hit that will ruin his prospects here and hereafter." (PXere he was again proceeding to mutter the delicious refrain " Georgoy Jones broke his bones," &c., when ho was interrupted by Proprietor K ; o. 1). "Here, stash that-," said .he, "Hum our prospects, you mean ; I instructed you to cease . such nonsense. The public say that our conduct is unbecoming in a paper tliat professes to lead public opinion. When Steward" " You are always talking about Steward. Why did you lot liim leave you ?"

"Ah !; Why did we 1 Because yon came- bore with a literary reputation which we hoped would be maintained." "There's the door," roared "the Editor. " So long as I occupy the editorial chair of this journal I shall bro.ok no interference with my prerogative. I shall draw upon my poetic imaginations, or upon the poetic imaginations of other great men—l shall crib pages of Carlyle or any other man—just when I chose. (Here the Editor repented of his hasty words, and begged pardon.)' The colloquy was interrupted bj ? the entrance of "Little Pepperbox," one 'of the newly-admitted members of tho literary staff of your contemporary. He entered with appropriate majesty, mumbling an extempore rhyme, the words of which were, " Ta. ti, ta, ti, ta," to divert

his mind, as is his wont. Stopping the music, and, addressing the Editor,, who had just written Mr. Moss, the Liberal member for Paraoll, down as n "babbling lunatic," in an article which bears this faint trace of originality, he said, "Did you see dat leader in de Vail?.. What did you tink of it—What did you tink of it, eh? " (Here "Little Pepper-box" produced a copy of your issue, which he had, with his accustomed prodigality, borrowed). " You will support rue ; I know you Will—won't you ? I will make it vorth your fwhile, d'ye undhei'shtand." " If Mr. Jones is opposed to you-—cer-tainly," said " and they both sat down 10 finish the article aud.acUp.fc the poem. "I'm not much at poetry," said the hot member.

' " Crib, and give him one for his knob," said the Editor. "That's what I do: nobody's any the wiser," and there thev sat—tho Edicor' and the leading politician—tiil the end was nearly reached. There were, however, yet a few lines to hash up. "Scissors" grew weary; he had fumbled through all the works of the other great authors, but found that 'lie had already exhausted them in the columns of his paper. He halted, and passed his band across his lofty brow. • " I have it !" s.ijci "Pepper-box," rubbing his hands with fiendish ulee. "Hum up de file. Steward and " Pat Ivlolloy " have written some 'ot tings ; app'v tie in to Jones."

"But," quoth "Scissors," "Wasn't ' Pat' very hard on you V' "Dat's not de question," sr,id "Pepperbox." " We'll say no.Ui'ng about dat." And when the two concocted those portions about " fetters of gold," and " a mould'ring trunk, aheap of bones," "Pop-per-box" screamed, "Dat ish sbplendid—dat vi'll give him jaro. Dere's not a vord of truth in it; but yqu don't mind dat." The business being completed, "Pepperbox" said, " Are-you going to shout." Scissors " was not to be had, and calmly replied, "I don't drink." ijxifc the hot. member, humming his little ditties.— Yours, &c., Suniar.