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 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 393 editorial rooms at midnight and later, sometimes finding the late hours a favorable time for writing. Once he came after twelve o 'dock with a bit of manuscript in his hand. the lines, **the poem's all right and we'll use it, but it's too late to get it in in the morning. We 'U use it next day. ' ' can set this. I had gone to bed and this thing got into my head and I had to get up and write it or I couldn't have slept. I want to see it in type. ' ' made up, ' ' objected the editor. among the advertisements. ' ' The editor did as he was asked. The poem was The Song of the Bullet. What inspired the lines in that time of peace he does not himself know. It might have been accounted for had it been produced at the time of the writing of this sketch, when all America stands aghast at the sudden transformation of Europe into a battlefield. The poem expresses in a won- derful way, both by its thought and form, the swift speeding of the murderous missile : And red-blent ranks ; and it nicked the star Of an epaulet, as it snarled the word — Warl Of the ensign-bearer stung, and straight Dropped at his side as the word was hissed — Hatel Of a jaunty cap and the curls thereof, Cooing, soft as a dove might do — Level Sang love, in sooth, till it needs must cease. Hushed in the heart it was questing for, — Peace 1"
 * I want this printed in the morning/' he said.
 * But Riley," said the editor in charge, running his eye over
 * It can't be too late, you've got more news to set and you
 * But the editorial page where such things go is already
 * I don't care where it goes. Put it on the market page or
 * It whizzed and whistled along the blurred
 * * On it sped — and the lifted wrist
 * * On went the missile — smoothed the blue
 * * Sang on 1 — sang on I — sang hate — sang war —