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Page 6
"I see," said Thacker. "Next we have two pages of selections from
'Lalla Rookh,' by Thomas Moore. Now, what Federal prison did Moore
escape from, or what's the name of the F. F. V. family that he
carries as a handicap?"
"Moore was an Irish poet who died in 1852," said Colonel Telfair,
pityingly. "He is a classic. I have been thinking of reprinting his
translation of Anacreon serially in the magazine."
"Look out for the copyright laws," said Thacker, flippantly. Who's
Bessie Belleclair, who contributes the essay on the newly completed
water-works plant in Milledgeville?"
"The name, sir," said Colonel Telfair, "is the nom de guerre of Miss
Elvira Simpkins. I have not the honor of knowing the lady; but her
contribution was sent to us by Congressman Brower, of her native
state. Congressman Brower's mother was related to the Polks of
Tennessee.
"Now, see here, Colonel," said Thacker, throwing down the magazine,
"this won't do. You can't successfully run a magazine for one
particular section of the country. You've got to make a universal
appeal. Look how the Northern publications have catered to the South
and encouraged the Southern writers. And you've got to go far and
wide for your contributors. You've got to buy stuff according to its
quality without any regard to the pedigree of the author. Now, I'll
bet a quart of ink that this Southern parlor organ you've been running
has never played a note that originated about Mason & Hamlin's line.
Am I right?"
"I have carefully and conscientiously rejected all contributions from
that section of the country--if I understand your figurative language
aright," replied the colonel.
"All right. Now I'll show you something."
Thacker reached for his thick manila envelope and dumped a mass of
typewritten manuscript on the editors desk.
"Here's some truck," said he, "that I paid cash for, and brought along
with me."
One by one he folded back the manuscripts and showed their first pages
to the colonel.
Here are four short stories four of the highest priced authors in the
United States--three of 'em living in New York, and one commuting.
There's a special article on Vienna-bred society by Tom Vampson.
Here's an Italian serial by Captain Jack--no--it's the other Crawford.
Here are three separate exposes of city governments by Sniffings, and
here's a dandy entitled 'What Women Carry in Dress-Suit Cases'--a
Chicago newspaper woman hired herself out for five years as a lady's
maid to get that information. And here's a Synopsis of Preceding
Chapters of Hall Caine's new serial to appear next June. And here's a
couple of pounds of vers de societe that I got at a rate from the
clever magazines. That's the stuff that people everywhere want. And
now here's a writeup with photographs at the ages of four, twelve,
twenty-two, and thirty of George B. McClellan. It's a
prognostication. He's bound to be elected Mayor of New York. It '11
make a big hit all over the country. He--"
"I beg your pardon," said Colonel Telfair, stiffening in his chair.
"What was the name?"
"Oh, I see," said Thacker, with half a grin. Yes, he's a son of the
General. We'll pass that manuscript up. But, if you'll excuse me,
Colonel, it's a magazine we're trying to make go off--not the first
gun at Fort Sumter. Now, here's a thing that's bound to get next to
you. It's an original poem by James Whitcomb Riley. J.W. himself.
You know what that means to a magazine. I won't tell you what I had
to pay for that poem; but I'll tell you this--Riley can make more
money writing with a fountain-pen than you or I can with one that lets
the ink run. I'll read you the last two stanzas:
"'Pa lays around 'n' loafs all day,
'N' reads and makes us leave him be.
He lets me do just like I please,
'N' when I'm in bad he laughs at me,
'N' when I holler loud 'n' say
Bad words 'n' then begin to tease
The cat, 'n' pa just smiles, ma's mad
'N' gives me Jesse crost her knees.
I always wondered why that wuz-
I guess it's cause
Pa never does.
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