il is weary
And the mind is drearq
I would play music like a vast amen
The way it sounds in a church of new
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Such was the first issue, complete, of _The North End Daily Oriole_.
What had happened to the poem was due partly to Atwater & Rooter's
natural lack of experience in a new and exacting trade; partly to their
enviable unconsciousness of any necessity for proof-reading; and
somewhat to their haste in getting through the final and least
interesting stage of their undertaking; for of course so far as the
printers were concerned, the poem was mere hack work anti-climax.

And as they later declared, under fire, anybody that could make out more
than three words in five of Florence's ole handwriting was welcome to do
it. Besides, what did it matter if a little bit was left out at the end
of one or two of the lines? They couldn't be expected to run the lines
out over their margin, could they? And they never knew anything crazier
than makin' all this fuss, because: Well, what if some of it wasn't
printed just exactly right, who in the world was goin' to notice it, and
what was the difference of just a few words different in that ole poem,
anyhow?

For by the time these explanations (so to call them) took place,
Florence was indeed makin' a fuss. Her emotion, at first, had been
happily stimulated at sight of "BY Florence Atwater." A singular
tenderness had risen in her--a tremulous sense as of something almost
sacred coming at last into its own; and she hurried to distribute,
gratis, among relatives and friends, several copies of the _Oriole_,
paying for them, too (though not without injurious argument), at the
rate of two cents a copy. But upon returning to her own home, she became
calm enough (for a moment or so) to look over the poem with attention to
details. She returned hastily to the Newspaper Building, but would have
been wiser to remain away, since all subscribers had received their
copies by the time she got there; and under the circumstances little
reparation was practicable.

She ended her oration--or professed to end it--by declaring that she
would never have another poem in their ole vile newspaper as long as she
lived.

"You're right about that!" Henry Rooter agreed heartily. "We wouldn't
_let_ another one in it. Not for fifty dollars! Just look at all the
trou