by Alfred Russell Wallace - "The Malay Archipelago Volume 1"

P.A. Sheehan - "My New Curate"

Charles Louis Fontenay - "Rebels of the Red Planet"

A. M. Barnard - "The Abbot's Ghost, Or Maurice Treherne's Temptation"

Editorial
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The Canadian Elocutionist

A >> Anna Kelsey Howard >> The Canadian Elocutionist




Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, "Whip poor Will!" "Bedad!"
sez I, "I'm glad it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems its
more in sorrow than in anger they're doin' it, or why should they say,
'poor Will?' and sure they can't be Injin, haythen, or naygur, for its
plain English they're afther spakin?"

Maybe they might help me out o' this, so I shouted at the top of my voice,
"A lost man!" Thin I listened. Prisintly an answer came.

"Who: Whoo! Whooo!"

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin'
up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I
thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, "A lost man!"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" said a voice right over my head.

"Sure," thinks I, "it's a quare place for a man to be at this time of
night; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar bush for the
childher's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of
them?" All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his
enquiry.

"Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't inconvanience your
honour, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way to the
house of Dennis O'Dowd?"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he.

"Dennis O'Dowd!" sez I, civil enough, "and a dacent man he is, and first
cousin to me own mother."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he again.

"Me mother!" sez I, "and as fine a woman as ever peeled a biled pratie wid
her thumb nail, and her maiden name was Molly McFiggin."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"

"Paddy McFiggin! bad luck to your deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say--do
you hear that? And he was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary,
excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith."

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!"

"Jim Doyle the blacksmith," sez I, "ye good for nothin' naygur, and if yez
don't come down and show me the way this min't I'll climb up there and
break ivery bone in your own skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy
Butler!"

"Who! Whoo! Whooo!" sez he, as impident as iver.

I said niver a word, but layin' down me bundle, and takin' me stick in me
teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked
quietly round till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me.

"Whist," sez I, "and I let him have a taste of an Irish stick," an' wid
that I let drive an' lost me balance an' came tumblin' to the ground,
nearly breaking me neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a very
sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and half me Sunday coat-tail
tore off intirely. I spoke to the chap in the tree, but could get niver an
answer at all, at all.

Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for I don't
throw me stick for nothin'.

Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I
detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's.

I went on cautiously for awhile, an' thin I heard a bell. "Sure," sez I,
"I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell." I kept on
toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to
run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on,
thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an
ould country steeple chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin'
and a house in sight wid a light in it. So leavin' the ould cow puffin and
blowin' in a shed, I wint to the house, and as luck would have it, whose
should it be but Dennis's?

He gave me a raal Irish, welcome, and introduced me to his two daughters--
as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him
me adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they
all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl.

"An ould what," sez I.

"Why, an owl, a bird," sez he.

"Do you tell me now!" sez I. "Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird."

And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that hearty
like, and dropped right into a chair between the two purty girls, and the
ould chap winked at me and roared again.

Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our
children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl.

* * * * *

THE QUAKER WIDOW.

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah,--come in! 'Tis kind of thee
To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to comfort me.
The still and quiet company a peace may give indeed,
But blessed is the single heart that comes to us in need.

Come, sit thee down! Here is the bench where Benjamin would sit
On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit:
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant bees
Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees.

I think he loved the spring: not that he cared for flowers: most men
Think such things foolishness,--but we were first acquainted then,
One spring: the next he spoke his mind: the third I was his wife,
And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered life.

He was but seventy-five! I did not think to lay him yet
In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly Meeting first we met.
The Father's mercy shows in this: 'tis better I should be
Picked out to bear the heavy cross--alone in age--than he.

We've lived together fifty years. It seems but one long day,
One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away;
And as we bring from meeting-time a sweet contentment home,
So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come.

I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know
If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go;
For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day,
But mother spoke for Benjamin,--she knew what best to say.

Then she was still; they sat awhile: at last she spoke again,
"The Lord incline thee to the right!" and "Thou shalt have him, Jane!"
My father said. I cried. Indeed it was not the least of shocks,
For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox.

I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we lost;
Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her crossed.
She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hireling priest!
Ah, dear! the cross was ours; her life's a happy one, at least.

Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's as old as I,--
Would thee believe it, Hannah? once _I_ felt temptation nigh!
My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste:
I wanted lace around the neck, and ribbon at the waist.

How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's side!
I did not dare to lift my eyes: I felt more fear than pride;
Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then there came
A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same.

I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no sign;
With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine.
It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I was his for life;
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah,--thee, too, hast been a wife.

As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as ours;
The woods were coming to leaf, the meadows full of flowers;
The neighbours met us in the lane, and every face was kind,--
'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my mind.

I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread;
At our own table we were guests, with father at the head,
And Dinah Passmore helped us both,--'twas she stood up with me,
And Abner Jones with Benjamin,--and now they're gone, all three!

It is not right to wish for death, the Lord disposes, best.
His spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His rest;
And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see:
For Benjamin has two in heaven and two are left with me.

Eusebius never cared to farm,--'twas not his call, in truth,
And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter Ruth.
Thee'll say her ways are not like mine,--young people now-a-days
Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways.

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple tongue,
The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young;
And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of late,
That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight.

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a "spirit clothed with grace,
And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face.
And dress may be of less account; the Lord will look within:
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin."

Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should go,
And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know.
'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned;
The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind.

_Bayard Taylor_.

* * * * *

CUDDLE DOON.

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht,
Wi' mickle faucht an' din;
"Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rougues,
Your faither's comin' in."
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up, an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

Wee Jamie wi' the curly head--
He aye sleeps next the wa',
Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece"--
The rascal starts them a'.
I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks;
They stop awee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out frae' neatn the claes,
"Mither, mak' Tarn gie ower at ance,
He's kittlin wi' his taes.",
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks,
He'd bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up an' cry,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their faither's fit,
An' as he steeks the door
They turn their faces to the wa',
While Tam pretends to snore.
"Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks
As he pits off his shoon,
"The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An' lang since cuddle doon."

An' just afore we bed oursel's,
We look at oor wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An' as I straik each croon
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht.
Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
But sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet come what will to ilka ane
May He who sits aboon,
Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

_Alexander Anderson._

* * * * *

PER PACEM AD LUCEM.
I do not ask, O Lord! that life may be
A pleasant road;
I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me
Aught of its load:
I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet;
I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet.
For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord! I plead:
Lead me aright--
Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed--
Through Peace to Light.
I do not ask, O Lord! that Thou shouldst shed
Full radiance here;
Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread
Without a fear.
I do not ask my cross to understand,
My way to see,--
Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand,
And follow Thee.
Joy is like restless day, but peace divine
Like quiet night.
Lead me, O Lord! till perfect day shall shine,
Through Peace to Light.

_Adelaide Anne Procter._

* * * * *

THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT.

Only last year, at Christmas time, while pacing down the city street,
I saw a tiny, ill clad boy--one of the many that we meet--
As ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one good shoe,
Just patches to keep out the wind--I know the wind blew keenly too:

A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, an honest brow,
And eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet forgotten how:
A newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence; now and then
Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging bravely on again.

Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his "Extras" o'er and o'er;
Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, by some door.
At last he stopped--six papers left, tucked hopelessly beneath his arm--
To eye a fruiterer's outspread store; here, products from some country farm;

And there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and clustered leaves
and flowers,
While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down their mimic
showers.
He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing in his eyes;
Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, mechanic wise,

Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, "Papers, sir? _The
Evening News!"_
He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, "Oh, sir don't refuse!"
"How many have you? Never mind--don't stop to count--I'll take them all;
And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, give me a call."

He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half wondering and half
glad.
I fumbled for the proper "change," and said, "You seem a little lad
To rough it in the streets like this." "I'm ten years old on Christmas-day!"
"Your name?" "Jim Hanley." "Here's a crown, you'll get change there across
the way.

"Five shillings. When you get it changed come to my office--that's the
place.
Now wait a bit, there's time enough: you need not run a headlong race.
Where do you live?" "Most anywhere. We hired a stable-loft to day.
Me and two others." "And you thought, the fruiterer's window pretty, hey?"

"Or were you hungry?" "Just a bit," he answered bravely as he might.
"I couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left last night."
"And you are cold?" "Ay, just a bit; I don't mind cold." "Why, that is
strange!"
He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted off to get the "change."

So, with a half unconscious sigh, I sought my office desk again;
An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with book and pen.
But when the mantel clock struck six I started with a sudden thought,
For there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers I had bought.

Why where's the boy? and where's the 'change' he should have brought an
hour ago?
Ah, well! ah, well! they're all alike! I was a fool to tempt him so,
Dishonest! Well, I might have known; and yet his face seemed candid too.
He would have earned the difference if he had brought me what was due.

"But caution often comes too late." And so I took my homeward way.
Deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the day.
Just two days later, as I sat, half dozing, in my office chair,
I heard a timid knock, and called in my brusque fashion, "Who is there?"

An urchin entered, barely seven--the same Scotch face, the same blue eyes--
And stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my forbidding guise.
"Sir, if you please, my brother Jim--the one you give the crown, you know--
He couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was hurted so.

"He didn't mean to keep the 'change.' He got runned over, up the street;
One wheel went right across his back, and t'other forewheel mashed his feet.
They stopped the horses just in time, and then they took him up for dead,
And all that day and yesterday he wasn't rightly in his head.

"They took him to the hospital--one of the newsboys knew 'twas Jim--
And I went, too, because, you see, we two are brothers, I and him.
He had that money in his hand, and never saw it any more.
Indeed, he didn't mean to steal! He never stole a pin before.

"He was afraid that you might think, he meant to keep it, anyway;
This morning when they brought him to, he cried because he couldn't pay.
He made me fetch his jacket here; it's torn and dirtied pretty bad;
It's only fit to sell for rags, but then, you know, it's all he had.

"When he gets well--it won't be long--if you will call the money lent.
He says he'll work his fingers off but what he'll pay you every cent."
And then he cast a rueful glance at the soiled jacket where it lay,
"No, no, my boy! take back the coat. Your brother's badly hurt you say?

"Where did they take him? Just run out and hail a cab, then wait for me.
Why, I would give a thousand coats, and pounds, for such a boy as he!"
A half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded wards,
And the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly on the boards.

I thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed her when she said,
Smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and cheek, "The boy is dead."
Dead? dead so soon? How fair he looked! One streak of sunshine on his hair.
Poor lad! Well it is warm in Heaven: no need of "change" and jackets there.

And something rising in my throat made it so hard for me to speak,
I turned away, and left a tear lying upon his sunburned cheek.

_Anon._

* * * * *

SANDALPHON.

Have you read in the Talmud of old,
In the Legends the Rabbins have told,
Of the limitless realms of the air,--
Have you read it,--the marvellous story
Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How erect, at the outermost gates
Of the City Celestial he waits,
With his feet on the ladder of light,
That, crowded with angels unnumbered,
By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered
Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire
Chant only one hymn, and expire
With the song's irresistible stress;
Expire in their rapture and wonder,
As harp strings are broken asunder
By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng,
Unmoved by the rush of the song,
With eyes unimpassioned and slow,
Among the dead angels, the deathless
Sandalphon stands listening breathless
To sounds that ascend from below;--

From the spirits on earth that adore,
From the souls that entreat and implore;
In the fervour and passion of prayer;
From the hearts that are broken with losses,
And weary with dragging the crosses
Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands,
And they change into flowers in his hands,
Into garlands of purple and red,
And beneath the great arch of the portal,
Through the streets of the City Immortal,
Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend I know,--
A fable, a phantom, a show,
Of the ancient Rabbinical lore;
Yet the old mediaeval tradition,
The beautiful, strange superstition,
But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night,
And the welkin above is all white,
All throbbing and panting with stars,
Among them majestic is standing,
Sandalphon, the angel, expanding
His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part
Of the hunger and thirst of the heart,
The frenzy and fire of the brain,
That grasps at the fruitage forbidden,
The golden pomegranates of Eden,
To quiet its fever and pain.

_Longfellow._

* * * * *

HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS

The morning broke.--Light stole upon the clouds
With a strange beauty.--Earth received again
Its garment of a thousand dyes; and leaves,
And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers,
And every thing that bendeth to the dew,
And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up
Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn.
All things are dark to sorrow; and the light
And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad
To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth
Was pouring odours from its spicy pores;
And the young birds were singing as if life
Were a new thing to them: but oh! it came
Upon her heart like discord; and she felt
How cruelly it tries a broken heart,
To see a mirth in any thing it loves.
The morning passed; and Asia's sun rode up
In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat.
The cattle of the hills were in the shade,
And the bright plumage of the Orient lay
On beating bosoms, in her spicy trees.
It was an hour of rest!--But Hagar found
No shelter in the wilderness; and on
She kept her weary way, until the boy
Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips
For water; but she could not give it him.
She laid him down beneath the sultry sky;--
For it was better than the close, hot breath
Of the thick pines,--and tried to comfort him;
But he was sore athirst; and his blue eyes
Were dim and bloodshot; and he could not know
Why God denied him water in the wild.--
She sat a little longer; and he grew
Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died.
It was too much for her. She lifted him,
And bore him farther on, and laid his head
Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub;
And, shrouding up her face, she went away,
And sat to watch, where he could see her not,
Till he should die; and watching him, she mourned:--

"God stay thee in thine agony, my boy!
I cannot see thee die; I cannot brook
Upon thy brow to look,
And see death settle on my cradle joy.
How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye
And could I see thee die?

"I did not dream of this, when thou wast straying
Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers,
Or wiling the soft hours,
By the rich gush of water-sources playing,
Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep,
So beautiful and deep.

"Oh no! and when I watched by thee, the while,
And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream,
And thought of the dark stream
In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile,
How prayed I that my fathers' land might be
A heritage for thee!

"And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee,
And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press;
And oh! my last caress
Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee--
How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there
Upon his clustering hair"

* * * * *

She stood beside the well her God had given
To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed
The forehead of her child until he laughed
In his reviving happiness, and lisped
His infant thought of gladness at the sight
Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand.

_N. P. Willis_

* * * * *

THE MODEL WIFE

His house she enters there to be a light,
Shining within when all around is night,
A guardian angel o'er his life presiding,
Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing:
Winning him back when mingling with the throng
Of this vain world we love, alas, too long,
To fireside's happiness and hours of ease,
Blest with that charm, the certainty to please;
How oft her eyes read his! Her gentle mind
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined;
Still subject--ever on the watch to borrow
Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow.

_Ruskin_

* * * * *

"GOODBYE."

Falling leaf and fading tree,
Lines of white in a sullen sea,
Shadows rising on you and me--
The swallows are making them ready to fly.
Goodbye, Summer! Goodbye!
Goodbye!

Hush! A voice from the far away!--
"Listen and learn," it seems to say,
"All the to-morrows shall be as to-day."
The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry.
The ink must break and the lamp must die.
Goodbye, Hope! Goodbye!
Goodbye!

What are we waiting for? Oh! my heart,
Kiss me straight on the brows and part!
Again! again! My heart! my heart!
What are we waiting for, you and I?
A pleading look--a stifled cry--
Goodbye forever! Goodbye!
Goodbye!

_Whyte Melville_.

MAKIN' AN EDITOR OUTEN 0' HIM.

"Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body today?
I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.
But layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you my little boy, Jim;
And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen o' him.
He aint no great shakes for to labour, though I've laboured with him a
good deal,
And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to
feel;
But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big,
Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a pig.
I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs,
And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs;
And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women indoors;
There's churnin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descriptions of chores;
But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm
afraid.
So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade.
His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim,
But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!
It aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him long for to learn;
He could feed the machine, I am thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to
turn.
And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do;
Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right
through.
I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, and how;
But 'tis most of it made by machinery, I can see it all plain enough now.
And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs,
Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length of the lines;
An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've
a whim,
If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' Jim!"

The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye,
Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made a reply:
"Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both?
Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath?
Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek?
Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week?
Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an impudent dunce?
Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a-dozen at once?
Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch?
And be sure that he knows how much to know, and knows how not to know too
much?
Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride?
Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros hide?
Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage,
and vim?
If so, we, perhaps, can be makin' an editor outen o' him.'"

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