LITMIR.BIZ

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make out his eyes, and fire sputters through his old spectacles. I think he never combs his hair."

      "Does he ever grumble at you?"

      "Oh no" – and here she laughed – "that is, I never give him time; I run away."

      The old poet made no reply to her, but went on holding that soft little hand with the Horace in it, and gazing thoughtfully at his daughter's face.

      "We can send it by mail," he said at last.

      That roused Letitia.

      "Oh, not at all!" she cried. "Why, I'm proud to take it, father. Mr. Butters isn't so dreadful – if he is fuzzy. I'm sure he'll print it. There was that letter from Mr. Banks last week, a column long, on carrots."

      He smiled dryly at her over his opened book.

      "If only my 'Jerusalem' were artichokes instead of Saracens!" he said.

      The fuzzy one was in his lair, proof-reading at his unkempt desk. The floor was littered at his feet. He was smoking a black tobacco in a blacker pipe. He wore no coat, no cuffs, and his sleeves were – um; it does not matter. He glared ("carnivorously," Letitia tells me) at the opening door.

      "Evening," he said, and waited; but the envelope did not arise. So he rose himself, offering a seat in the midst of his clutter, a plain, pine, rope-mended chair, from which he pawed soiled sheets of copy and tattered exchanges that she might sit.

      "Looks some like snow," he said.

      "Yes," she assented. "I called, Mr. Butters – "

      She paused uncertainly. It was her own voice that had disconcerted her, it was so tremulous.

      "Another poem, I suppose," he said, fondly imagining that he had softened his voice to a tone of gallantry, but succeeding no better than might be expected of speech so hedged, so beset and baffled, so veritably bearded in its earward flight.

      "You – you mentioned snow, I think," stammered Letitia. He had frightened her away, or she may have drawn back, half-divining, even in embarrassment, that the other, the more round-about, the snowy path, was the better way to approach her theme.

      "Snow and east winds are the predictions, I believe, Miss Primrose."

      "I dread the winter – don't you?" she ventured.

      "No," he replied. "I like it."

      "That's because you are – "

      "Because I'm so fat, you mean."

      "Oh no, Mr. Butters, I didn't even think of that; I meant so – "

      And then – heavens! – it flashed across her that she had meant "woolly"! To save her soul she could think of no synonyme. Her cheeks turned red.

      "I meant – why, of course, I meant – you're so well prepared."

      "Well prepared," he grumbled.

      "Why, yes, you – men can wear beards, you know."

      "Egad! you're right," he roared. "You're right, Miss Primrose. I am well mufflered, that's a fact."

      "But, really, it must be a great assistance, Mr. Butters."

      "Oh yes; it is – and it saves neckties."

      And this, mark you, was the way to Poetry! Poor Letitia, with the manuscript hidden beneath her cloak, was all astray. The image of the poet with Horace in his lap rose before her and rebuked her. She was tempted to disclose her mission, dutifully, there and then.

      "How is Mrs. Butters?" she inquired instead.

      "About as well as common, which is to say, poorly – very poorly, thank you."

      "Oh, I'm sorry."

      Editor Butters seemed downcast.

      "She's tried everything," he said. "Even had a pocket made in her gown to hold a potato and a horse-chestnut – but this rheumatism does beat all, I tell you. How's the old gentleman?"

      "The doctor says he will never walk."

      "Yes, so I heard," muttered the editor. "It's a damned shame."

      He was fumbling with his proofs and did not see her face – yet, after all, she could feel the sympathy even in his rudeness.

      "Still hatching poems, I suppose?"

      Her heart, which had warmed even as her cheeks had colored at his other words, grew cold at these. What manner of toil it was that brought forth things so pure and beautiful in her sight, what labor of love and travail of spirit it was to him, she alone would ever know who watched beside him, seeing his life thus ebbing, dream by dream. She sat silent, crumpling those precious pages in her hands.

      "Well," Butters went on, gruffly, clearing his throat, "he's a good hand at it." He was not looking at Letitia, but kept his eyes upon a ring of keys with which he played nervously; and now when he spoke it was more spasmodically, as if reluctant to broach some matter for which, however, he felt the time had come. "Yes, he's a good hand at it. Used to be even better than he is now – but that's natural. I wish, though – you'd just suggest when it comes handy – just in a quiet sort of way, you know – some day when you get the chance – that he's getting just a leetle bit – you can say it better than I can – but I mean long-winded for the Gazette. It's natural, of course, but you see – you see, Miss Primrose, if we print one long-winded piece, you know – you can see for yourself – why, every other poet in Grassy Ford starts firing epics at us, which is natural, of course, but – hard on me. And if I refuse 'em, why, then, they just naturally up and say, 'Well, you printed Primrose's; why not mine?' and there they have you – there they have you right by the – yes, sir, there they have you; and there's the devil to pay. Like as not they get mad then and stop their papers, which they don't pay for – and that's natural, too, only it causes feeling and doesn't do me any good, or your father either."

      "But, Mr. Butters, you printed Mr. Banks's letter on carrots, and that was – "

      The editor fairly leaped in his chair.

      "There, you have it!" he cried. "Just what I said! There's that confounded letter of Jim Banks's, column-long on carrots, a-staring me in the face from now till kingdom come when any other idiot wants to print something a column long. Just what I say, Miss Primrose; but you must remember that the readers of the Gazette do raise carrots, and they don't raise – well, now, for instance, and not to be mean or personal at all, Miss Primrose – not at all – they don't raise Agamemnons or Theocrituses. I suppose I should say Theocriti – singular, Theocritus; plural, Theocriti. No, sir, they don't raise Theocriti – which is natural, of course, and reminds me – while we are on the subject – reminds me, Miss Primrose, that I've been thinking – or wondering – in fact, I've been going to ask you for some time back, only I never just got the chance – ask you if you wouldn't – just kind of speak to your father, to kind of induce him, you know, to – to write on – about – well, about livelier things. You see, Miss Primrose, it's natural, of course, for scholars to write about things that are dead and gone. They wouldn't be scholars if they wrote what other people knew about. That's only natural. Still – still, Miss Primrose, if the old gentleman could just give us a poem or two on the – well, the issues of the day, you know – oh, he's a good writer, Miss Primrose! Mind, I'm not saying a word – not a word – against that. I'd be the last – Good God, what's the matter, girl! What have I done? Oh, I say now, that's too bad – that's too bad, girlie. Come, don't do that – don't – Why, if I'd a-known – "

      Letitia, "Jerusalem" crushed in her right hand, had buried her face among the proof-sheets on his desk. Woolier than ever in his bewilderment, the editor rose – sat – rose again – patted gingerly (he had never had a daughter), patted Letitia's shaking shoulders and strove to soothe her with the only words at his command: "Oh, now, I say – I – why, say, if I'd a-known" – till Letitia raised her dripping face.

      "You m-mustn't mind, Mr. B-Butters," she said, smiling through her tears.

      "Why, say, Miss Primrose, if I'd a-dreamed – "

      "It's all my f-fault, Mr. B-Butters."

      "Damn

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