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writeup
with photographs at the ages of four, twelve, twenty-two, and thirty of
George B. McClellan. It's a prognostication. He's bound to be elected
Mayor of New York. It '11 make a big hit all over the country. He--"
"I beg your pardon," said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair. "What
was the name?"
"Oh, I see," said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he's a son of the
General. We'll pass that manuscript up. But, if you'll excuse me,
Colonel, it's a magazine we're trying to make go off--not the first gun at
Fort Sumter. Now, here's a thing that's bound to get next to you. It's an
original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J.W. himself. You know
what that means to a magazine. I won't tell you what I had to pay for
that poem; but I'll tell you this--Riley can make more money writing
with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets the ink run. I'll
read you the last two stanzas:
"'Pa lays around 'n' loafs all day, 'N' reads and makes us leave him be.
He lets me do just like I please, 'N' when I'm in bad he laughs at me, 'N'
when I holler loud 'n' say Bad words 'n' then begin to tease The cat, 'n'

pa just smiles, ma's mad 'N' gives me Jesse crost her knees. I always
wondered why that wuz- I guess it's cause Pa never does.
"''N' after all the lights are out I'm sorry 'bout it; so I creep Out of my
trundle bed to ma's 'N' say I love her a whole heap, 'N' kiss her, 'n' I hug
her tight. 'N' it's too dark to see her eyes, But every time I do I know
She cries 'n' cries 'n' cries 'n' cries. I always wondered why that wuz- I
guess it's 'cause Pa never does.'
"That's the stuff," continued Thacker. "What do you think of that?"
"I am not unfamiliar with the works of Mr. Riley," said the colonel,
deliberately. "I believe he lives in Indiana. For the last ten years I have
been somewhat of a literary recluse, and am familiar with nearly all the
books in the Cedar Heights library. I am also of the opinion that a
magazine should contain a certain amount of poetry. Many of the
sweetest singers of the South have already contributed to the pages of
The Rose of Dixie. I, myself, have thought of translating from the
original for publication in its pages the works of the great Italian poet
Tasso. Have you ever drunk from the fountain of this immortal poet's
lines, Mr. Thacker?"
"Not even a demi-Tasso," said Thacker.
Now, let's come to the point, Colonel Telfair. I've already invested
some money in this as a flyer. That bunch of manuscripts cost me
$4,000. My object was to try a number of them in the next issue-I
believe you make up less than a month ahead--and see what effect it
has on the circulation. I believe that by printing the best stuff we can
get in the North, South, East, or West we can make the magazine go.
You have there the letter from the owning company asking you to
co-operate with me in the plan. Let's chuck out some of this slush that
you've been publishing just because the writers are related to the
Skoopdoodles of Skoopdoodle County. Are you with me?"
"As long as I continue to be the editor of The Rose," said Colonel
Telfair, with dignity, "I shall be its editor. But I desire also to conform
to the wishes of its owners if I can do so conscientiously."
"That's the talk," said Thacker, briskly. "Now, how much of this stuff
I've brought can we get into the January number? We want to begin
right away."
"There is yet space in the January number," said the editor, "for about
eight thousand words, roughly estimated."

"Great!" said Thacker. "It isn't much, but it'll give the readers some
change from goobers, governors, and Gettysburg. I'll leave the selection
of the stuff I brought to fill the space to you, as it's all good. I've got to
run back to New York, and I'll be down again in a couple of weeks."
Colonel Telfair slowly swung his eye-glasses by their broad, black
ribbon.
"The space in the January number that I referred to," said he,
measuredly, "has been held open purposely, pending a decision that I
have not yet made. A short time ago a contribution was submitted to
The Rose of Dixie that is one of the most remarkable literary efforts
that has ever come under my observation. None but a master mind and
talent could have produced it. It would just fill the space that I have
reserved