in his best manner, his
face gleaming with amusement. Occasionally he would glance across at
Anthy as if for approval. Anthy's face was a study. While it was evident
that she was puzzled and uncertain, I could see that Nort was carrying
her wholly with him. It was the common spirit of youth, adventure,
daring--the common joy of revolt.

The upshot of the matter was that the office worked early and late
during the next two or three days setting poetry. We chose mostly the
short poems, including a veritable school of limericks, and in each case
printed the name of the author in good large type. Some of the verses,
to judge by their appearance, must have been in the office for several
years--from the days of Anthy's father. Anthy's father had never
destroyed the verses sent to him; he kept them, but rarely printed any
of them. He had so deep a fondness for human beings, understood them so
well, and Hempfield had come to be so much his own family to him, that
he kept all these curious outreachings, whether of sorrow, or humour, or
of mere empty exuberance or sentimentality. Often he laughed at
them--but he kept them. Anthy had much the same deep feeling--which the
Nort of that time could not have understood. She felt that there was
something not quite sound about Nort's brilliant scheme, but when she
objected or protested about some particular poem, Nort always swept her
away with his eager, "Oh, put her in, put her in!"

For the top of the page Fergus set a heading, proofed it, and showed it
to Nort.

"Not big enough," said Nort. "Got anything larger?"

Fergus thought he had, and presently returned with a heading in regular
poster type:

POEMS OF HEMPFIELD

I can see Nort yet, holding it up for us to view, and shouting:

"Bully boy, Fergus, that'll get 'em!"

We introduced the poetry with a statement that for several years the
_Star_ had received poems, written by the citizens of the town and
county, very few of which had been published. We presented them to our
readers as one expression of the life, thought, and interests of our
town.

On Wednesday--we went to press Wednesday afternoon--Nort came in from
dinner with a broad smile on his face.

"Got another poem," he said.

"Humph," growled Fergus, who knew that he would have to set it up.

"I stopped at the corner as I came along, and old John Tole was standing
out in front of his store." Here Nort, thrusting both hands into his
rear trousers pockets, lean