Chapter 7 - Page 2

contribution, and asking him to deposit it as soon as
practicable--which was pleasing enough, since it implied that the poet
was the possessor of a bank account.

Now Mrs. Pedagog was consumed with curiosity to know for how large a sum
the check called--which desire was gratified a few days later, when the
inspired boarder paid his week's bill with three one-dollar bills and a
check, signed by a well-known publisher, for two dollars.

[Illustration: THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL]

By the boarders themselves the poet was regarded with much interest.
The School-Master had read one or two of his effusions in the Fireside
Corner of the journal he received weekly from his home up in New
England--effusions which showed no little merit, as well as indicating
that Mr. Warren wrote for a literary syndicate; Mr. Whitechoker had known
of him as the young man who was to have written a Christmas carol for his
Sunday-school a year before, and who had finished and presented the
manuscript shortly after New-Year's day; while to the Idiot, Mr. Warren's
name was familiar as that of a frequent contributor to the funny papers
of the day.

"I was very much amused by your poem in the last number of the
_Observer_, Mr. Warren," said the Idiot, as they sat down to breakfast
together.

"Were you, indeed?" returned Mr. Warren. "I am sorry to hear that, for it
was intended to be a serious effort."

"Of course it was, Mr. Warren, and so it appeared," said the
School-Master, with an indignant glance at the Idiot. "It was a very
dignified and stately bit of work, and I must congratulate you upon it."

"I didn't mean to give offence," said the Idiot. "I've read so much of
yours that was purely humorous that I believe I'd laugh at a dirge if you
should write one; but I really thought your lines in the _Observer_ were
a burlesque. You had the same thought that Rossetti expresses in 'The
Woodspurge':

'The wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree to hill;
I had walked on at the wind's will,
I sat now, for the wind was still.'

That's Rossetti, if you remember. Slightly suggestive of 'Blow Ye Winds
of the Morning! Blow! Blow! Blow!' but more or less pleasing."

"I recall the poem you speak of," said Warren, with dignity; "but the
true poet, sir--and I hope I have some claim to be considered as
such--never so far forgets himself as to burlesque his masters."

"Well, I don't know what to call it, then, when a poet takes the same
thought that has previously been used by his masters and makes a funny
poem--"

"But," returned the Poet, warmly, "it was