With a placative little laugh, Mr.Schofield remarked: "I git the swing to her all right, I reckon, but somehow it doesn't sound so kind of good as when I was writing it." There was no response, and he went on hurriedly: "'But there he saw the little rill--'" The poet paused to say, with another amiable laugh: "It's sort of hard to git out of them ill, hill, chill rhymes once you strike 'em.

It runs on like this: "'-- Little rill That curved and spattered around the hill.' "I guess that's all right, to use 'hill' twice; don't you reckon so?
"'And the orphan he stood there until The wind and all gave him a chill; And he sickened--'" That day Ross read no more, for the tall printer, seemingly incapable of coherent speech, kicked the desk impotently, threw his arms above his head, and, his companions confidently looking to see him foam at the mouth, lost his balance and toppled over backward, his extensive legs waving wildly in the air as he struck the floor.

Mr.Schofield fled.
Parker made no effort to rise, but lay glaring at the ceiling, breathing hard.

He remained in that position for a long time, until finally the glaze wore away from his eyes and a more rational expression settled over his features.

Mr.Fisbee addressed him timidly: "You don't think we could reduce the size of the sheet ?" "It would kill him," answered his prostrate companion.