n showed
it to me."

He read aloud with great effect:

A PLEA FOR THE BALLOT

There was a maiden all forlorn,
Who milked a cow with a crumpled horn,
She churned the butter, and made the cheese,
And taught her brothers their A B C's.

She worked and scrubbed till her back was broke,
And paid her tax, but she couldn't vote.
Oh! you men look wise and laugh us to scorn,
We'll get the ballot as sure as you're born.

"I can guess who wrote _that_!" laughed Anthy. "It was Sophia
Rhinehart."

"You're right," said Nort, "and I say, print it."

"There's a whole drawer full of poetry like that here in the desk,"
observed the Captain.

"I'll tell you, let's print it all!" said Nort. "This town is full of
poetry. Let's let it out. That's a part of the life of Hempfield which
the _Star_ hasn't considered."

For the life of me I could not tell at the moment whether Nort was
joking or not, but Fergus was troubled with no such uncertainty. He took
his pipe out of his mouth, poked down the fire with his thumb, and
observed:

"'Tain't poetry."

Anthy laughed. "No," she said, "it isn't Robert Burns. Fergus measures
everything by 'The Twa Dogs.'"

"Whur'll ye do better?" responded Fergus.

"No," said Nort, warming up to his argument and convincing himself, I
think, as he went along, "but I say it's interesting, and it's by people
in Hempfield, and it's news. What could be a better personal item than a
poem by--who was it, Miss Doane?"

"Sophia Rhinehart."

"The poet Sophia! Think of all of Sophia's cousins and uncles and aunts,
and all the people in Hempfield, who will be shocked to know that Sophia
has written a poem on woman suffrage."

"That's what I object to," boomed the Captain, "it's nonsense."

As I look back upon it now, it seems absurd, the irresistible way in
which Nort swept the orfunts of the _Star_ before him in his enthusiasm.
A country newspaper office is one of the most democratic institutions in
the world. The whole force, from proprietor down, works together and
changes work. The editor is also compositor, and the compositor and
office boy are reporters. No one poses as having any very superior
knowledge, and it sometimes happens that a printer, like Fergus,
comfortably drawing his regular wages, is better off for weeks at a time
than the harassed proprietor himself.

Nort drew the poems, a big disorderly package of them, out of the
editorial drawer, and read some of them aloud