The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1892-11-02

and then to himself sad finally tossed
it back carelessly.
'sThe unconscious .ess of geniusw
whispered Addie in my ear, just as
he turned upon us.
"Who owns this book?"
modestly answered that I had that
great pleasure.
"Great pleasure, hey? She calls it
pleasure, Tom! Hem! l suppose /
ought to feel complimented; but / don't.
Young lady, will you do me one favor?
"W hat is it, sir?"
"Put that stupid trash into the fire."
s'Stupid trash!' cried Addie, aghast,
bnatching up the volume.
eyes, wrote it. was a 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.
.sBut, sir, look at the fame you have
won," remarked.
.sHeml fame-it's rag futtering on
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 a fair
way to clear the tray between them.
Addie caught up the condemned volume
of poems and vanished from the room.
l followed her. She fed up the stairs
like fairy, and found her in the poets
chamber, stripping the roses from the
vases with frantic haste.
sWhat on earth are you about" /
asked, hating on the threshold in amaze
ment.
He shall not have one Of them" she
said, half crying. ellis curtains shall
not be Topped 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!'
l burst out laughing and ran down
stairs. The contrast between our
dreams Of the poet and the poet as 10
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 a faint smell of
cigars they actually been smoking
there? No; heard my uncle pacing up
and down the garden, as was his wont
each evening, and the fragrance of the
weed came that way, but he was alone.
Where was the poet?
| caught sight Of him at last, sitting
1T the open window with the rose col
pred 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 sssham" them 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 in 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
mufied 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
I could; he started little; his head set
tied down upon one side, exposing his
face; the mouth opened, and-he snoredl
The next morning started on my trip
to the west, and from that day to this I
have never met ''poet. IN. w. G. in
New York News.