A LITERARY QUESTION.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2220, 7 April 1881, Page 2

A LITERARY QUESTION.

“ What seems to be the matter hero ?” inquired the city editor as he entered the local room and found two reporters rolling over each other on the floor. “ Stop this! What's the trouble P"

“He says my account of the funeral yesterday was all slush," panted one of the contestants, climbing to his feet. It's twice as good as his account of the fire." “ Tisn't either,” objected the other. “ I can write all around him with one hand, and lick him with the other. Look at his funeral business. He says— 1 The corpse stood in a meat casket, which looked as natural as life ; while the organ strains blended with a fine cross and anchor of tuberoses, presented to the deceased by his partners as a token of their esteem.' ”

“ Well, wasn’t it ?” demanded the funeral reporter. "See how he puts out his fire: * Engine No. 6 got the first stream on the Eire Fiend, who shot forth his starry tongue and rolled his eyes savagely as the crystal drops fell thick and swift on his red and yellow hide. At this juncture the hose burst, end but for the prompt arrival of No. 4 the monster would have stridcd through the city, leaving a burning pathway of widows and orphans.’ " “So he would," proclaimed the fire reporter. ‘ When No. 4 arrived he had the bulge. But look at this for a funeral notice : ‘ The mourners were veiled, but not so keenly as to hide their sobs from the keen observer. A dim religious light prevailed, contrasting pleasantly with the discourse, which was calculated to comfort those who were weary and heavy laden, of which there were six, all prominent citizens, who officiated as pall bearers.’ That’s what I called slush !”

“ What does he know about writing ?” demanded the funeral reporter. “ Listen to hie fire a minute : * The fiames buret out of a common kitchen steve, and, rejoicing in their freedom, poured with a wild roar of laughter into the adjoining room used by Mr O’Meara as a tailor’s shop. Up the side of the doorways they climbed, shrieking with fiendish delight, towards the residing rooms of Mr Amos Thompson, when they wore checked by the gush of the enraged engines, and dropped affrighted through the floor into Antonelli’s barber establishment below.’ Call that sense ?”

“ Certainly!” defended the author. “ That’® what they did, and I wrote up the facts. Talk about writing! Look at this : ‘ The respect in which the deceased wee held was testified by the energy displayed by the mourners in their efforts to secure front seats. Long before the hour appointed the house was crowded, and hundreds were turned away. At the conclusion of the ceremony the preacher announced that all who desired to glance at the features of the dead party would please step forward, and the scene that followed beggars description, while the organ played a sad aria from Offenbach’s oratorio of ‘Solomon.* What does that mean ?'

“ You just let it alone," defied the funeral reporter, “ How’s this ? ‘ For hours the hissing water and the battling flames wrestled for mastery. At length the wearied mass of furious fire, with one expiring effort, reached its blazing arms towards the frowning zenith, and with a shudder of despair sank before its hereditary foe. Loss, 200dol; no insurance.’ Call that reporting ? I don’t.” “ Don't, eh ?” demanded the fire reporter. And the city editor loft them rolling on the floor again. There are some questions an umpire cannot decide. Eagle.”