Evening capital journal. (Salem, Or.) 1888-1893, 1892-11-09
and then to. himself, and finally tossed

and then to. himself, and finally tossed
It back carelessly.
"The unconsciousness of geniusf'
whispered Addie in my ear, just as
he turned upon us.
"Who owns this bookY
modestly answered that / had that
great pleasure.
Great pleasure, hey? She calls it a
pleasure, Toni Hem! suppose /
ought to feel complimented; but don't.
Young lady, will you do me one favorY'
"What is it, sir?'
"Put that stupid trash into the fire. :
"Stupid trashi'' cried Addie, aghast.
snatching up the volume.
eyes, wrote it. l was boy-and,
by George, my publishers took it out of
my desk and went mad over it, while
they actually turned up their noses at
my report of the poor laws-would you
believe it?"
My uncle looked sympathizing. Addie
arranged the ice cream glasses before
him without word.
"But, sir, look at the fame you have
won," remarked.
"Hem! fame--it's a rag futtel-ing on
a bush; wouldn't give button for it.
Five thousand dollars year will keep
you well clothed and well fed--fame
won't"
He helped himself to an ice.
There was no reply. The two gentle
men resumed their political discussion,
waxing so warm in the defense of their
favorite views that they were in fair
way to clear the tray between them.
Addie caught up the contemned volume
of poems and vanished from the room.
| followed her. She fed up the stairs
like fairy, and / found her in thepoet's
chamber, stripping the roses from the
vases with frantic haste.
"What on earth are you about?' ]
asked, hating on the threshold in amaze
ment.
"He shall not have one of thein," she
said, half crying. "His curtains shall
not be looped up with them--I have a
great mind to tie them back with rope
yarn. TO think how we worked all the
day to give him pleasure, and after all
he only cares about eating and drinking,
and being an alderman. Oh, it is too
bad!"
burst out laughing and ran down
stairs. The contrast between our
dreams of the poet and the poet as he
was was rich. had to wait moment
in the hall to get my face into company
order" and then, pushing open the half
closed door, went back into the parlor
At first sight thought it was empty.
The chairs were pushed away from the
table, and there was faint smell Of
cigars--had they actually been smoking
there? No; heard my uncle pacing up
each evening, and the fragrance of the
weed came that way. but he was alone.
Where was the poet?
l caught sight of him at last, sitting
at the open window with the rose col
ored curtains falling in soft folds around
him. The moon was up, shining glori-
ously upon the grassy yard beneath
him; the night wind rustled in the
leaves Of the naples above his head.
Addie, coming into the room, paused at
the sight of my uplifted finger on the
threshold.
1t had been all a "sham" thenl Our
poet, though hearty eater, still re-
tanned his love Of the beautiful. What
on earth had made him talk such heresy,
when he sat raped iu enjoyment, never
stirring, scarcely breathing, as he
watched that glorious moon? would
steal softly to his side, pause, try to
convict him and make him recant all
the fibs he had told about these beauti-
full blossomings of his youth--the poems.
The carpet was thick and soft, and it
muffled my football effectually, and
stood beside him unnoticed. His face
was hidden by his arm. Iheard chok-
ing sound--he was weeping My heart
melted in gush of pity; laid my hand
upon his shoulder as sympathizingly as
could; he started a little; his head set
tied down upon one side, exposing his
face; the mouth opened, and-he snored!
The next morning started on my trip
to the west, and from that day to this /
have never met "poet. w. q. in
New York News.