The Wyandot Pioneer

THE 'LOCAL'S' SOLILOQUY-LONG-FELLOW OUT-LONGFELLOWED.

[From the Dubuque Times.]

In September, wet and dreary sat the writer weak and weary,
prompting o'er his memoranda book of items used before -book scrawling head notes,
items taken days together, then in hot and sultry weather,
using up much time and leather --pondering we these items o'er.
While we pondered, slowly rocking, (through our mind queer ideas flocking)
came a quick and nervous knocking-knocking at the sanctum door.--
'Sure that must be Jenks,' we muttered--'Jenks that's knocking at our door;
Jenks the everlasting bore.'

Ah, how well do we remind us, in the walls that there confined us,
exchanges lay behind us, all scattered o'er the floor.
Thought we Jenks wants to borrow some newspapers till to-morrow,
and t'will be relief from sorrow to get rid of Jenks the bore,
by opening wide the door. Still the visitor kept knocking--knocking louder than before.

And the scattered pile of papers cut some very curious capers,
being lifted by the breeze coming through another door;
and we wished (the wish was evil for one deemed always civil)
that Jenks was to the devil, to stay there evermore,
there to find his lore--Jenks the never tiring bore.

Backing up our patience firmer, then, without another murmur,
'Mr. Jenks,' said we, 'your pardon, your forgiveness we implore.
But the fact is we were reading of some curious proceeding,
and thus it was unheeding your loud knocking there before.'

Here we opened wide the door. But fancy our phalanx--for it wasn't Jenks the bore--
Jenks the nameless evermore. But the form that stood before us
caused a trembling to come o'er us, and memory quickly bore us
back again to days of yore; days when 'items' were in plenty,
and where'er this writer went he picked up items by the score--
'Twas the dark form of our devil thrust in attitudes uncivil,
and he thrust his head within the door, with--'The foreman is out of copy, sir, and says he wants some more.'--

Yes, like Alexander wanted more!

Now this 'local' had already walked about till nearly dead--had sauntered through the city
till his feet were sore-- walked through the street called Locust, and by ways running off
into all portions of the city, both public and obscure--had examined every store,
and had questioned every 'feller' whom he met from door to door,
if anything was stirring--any accident occurring--not published heretofore,
and had met with no success; he would rather kinder guess
he felt a little wicked at that ugly little bore,
with his message from the foreman that he wanted something more.

'Now 'tis time you were departing you young imp,' cried we upstarting,
get you back into the office--office where you were before
or the words you have spoken will get your bones broken all broken
(and we seized a cudgel oaken that was lying on the floor,)
take your hands out of your pockets, and leave the sanctum door;
tell the foreman there is no copy you ugly little bore.'

Quoth the devil 'send him more.'

And our devil never sitting, still is flitting, still is flitting
back and forth upon the landing outside our sanctum door
tears adown his face are streaming, light from his eye is beaming,
and his voice is heard still screaming, 'Sir, the foreman wants some more.'--
And our soul pierced with that screaming, is awakened from its dreaming
and has lost the seeming peace it had before; for the fancy will come o'er us
that each reader's face before us bears the horrid words, 'we want a little more.'
Words on their foreheads glaring, 'your local column wants a little more.'