LITMIR.BIZ

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you. I might a-known you'd think I was criticising your father."

      "Oh, it's not that exactly, Mr. Butters, but you see – "

      She put her hair out of her eyes and smoothed the manuscript.

      "Egad! I see; you had one of the old gentleman's – "

      Letitia nodded.

      "Egad!" he cried again. "Let's see, Miss Primrose."

      "Oh, there isn't the slightest use," she said. "It's too long, Mr. Butters."

      "No, no. Let's have a look at it."

      "No," she answered. "No, it's altogether too long, Mr. Butters."

      "But let's have a look at it."

      She hesitated. His hand was waiting; but she shook her head.

      "No. It's the longest poem he ever wrote, Mr. Butters. It's his masterpiece."

      "By George! let's see it, then. Let's see it."

      "Why, it's as long, Mr. Butters – it's as long as 'Lycidas.'"

      "Long as – hm!" he replied. "Still – still, Miss Primrose," he added, cheerfully, "that isn't so long when you come to think of it."

      "But that's not all," Letitia said. "It's about – it's called – oh, you'll never print it, Mr. Butters!"

      She rose with the poem in her hand.

      "Print it!" cried Butters. "Why, of course I'll print it. I'll print it if every cussed poet in Grassy – "

      "Oh, will you, Mr. Butters?"

      "Will I? Of course I will."

      He took it from her unresisting fingers.

      "Je-ru-sa-lem!" he cried, fluttering the twenty pages.

      "Yes," she said, "that's – that's the name of it, Mr. Butters," and straightway set herself to rights again.

      IV

      THE SEVENTH SLICE

      It was the editor himself who told me the story years afterwards – Butters of "The Pide Bull," as he ever afterwards called his shop, for in her gratitude Letitia had pointed out to him how natural it was that he of all men should be the patron of poets, since beyond a doubt, she averred, he was descended from that very Nathaniel Butter for whom was printed the first quarto edition of King Lear. Indeed, with the proofs of "Jerusalem" she brought him the doctor's Shakespeare, and showed him in the preface to the tragedy the record of an antique title-page bearing these very words:

      "Printed for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at his shop in Paul's Churchyard at the signe of the Pide Bull neere St. Austin's Gate, 1608."

      "Egad!" said Butters, "I never heard that before. Well, well, well, well."

      "I think there is no doubt, Mr. Butters," said Letitia, "that he was your ancestor."

      "You don't say so," mumbled the delighted editor. "Shouldn't wonder. Shouldn't wonder now at all. I believe there was an 's' tacked on our name, some time or other, now that I come to think of it, and printer's ink always did run in the Butters blood, by George!"

      He even meditated hanging up a sign with a pied bull upon it – or so he said – but rejected the plan as too Old English for Grassy Ford. He never ceased, however, to refer to "my old cousin – Shakespeare's publisher, you know," and in the occasional dramatic criticisms that embellished the columns of the Gazette, all plays presented at our Grand Opera-House in the Odd Fellow's Block were compared, somehow, willy-nilly, to King Lear.

      Butters of "The Pide Bull," I say, first told me how that young Crusader with the tear-wet face had delivered "Jerusalem," saving it from the stern fate which had awaited it and setting it proudly among the immortal "Gems." Then I sought Letitia, whose briefer, more reluctant version filled in wide chinks in the Butters narrative, while my knowledge of them both, of their modesty and their tender-heartedness, filled in the others, making the tale complete.

      I was too young when the poet wrote his masterpiece to know or care about it, or how it found its way to the wondering world of Grassy Ford – nay, to the whole round world as well, "two hemispheres," as old man Butters used to remind me with offended pride in his voice, which had grown gruffer with his years. Did he not send Gazettes weekly, he would ask, to Mrs. Ann Bowers's eldest son, a Methodist missionary in the Congo wilds, and to "that woman in Asia"? He referred to a Grassy Ford belle of other days who had married a tea-merchant and lived in Chong-Chong.

      Who knows what befell the edition of that memorable Gazette which contained "Jerusalem," set solid, a mighty column of Alexandrine lines? One summer's afternoon, tramping in an Adirondack wilderness, I came by chance upon the blackened ashes of a fire, and sitting meditatively upon a near-by log, poking the leaf-strewn earth with my stick, I unearthed a yellow, half-burned corner of an old newspaper, and, idly lifting it to read, found it a fragment of some Australian Times. Still more recently, when my aunt Matilda, waxing wroth at the settling floors of her witch-colonial house in Bedfordtown, had them torn up to lay down new ones, the carpenters unearthed an old rat's nest built partially of a New York Tribune with despatches from the field of Gettysburg.

      "Sneer not at the power of the press," old man Butters used to say, stuffing the bowl of his black pipe from my tobacco-jar and casting the match into my wife's card-tray. "Who knows, my boy? Davy Primrose's 'Jerusalem' may turn up yet."

      It is something to ponder now how all those years that I played away, Letitia, of whom I thought then only as the young lady who lived next door and occasional confidante of my idle hours, was slaving with pretty hands and puzzling her fair young mind to bring both ends together in decent comfort for that poor dependent one. Yet she does not sigh, this gray Letitia among the petunias, when she talks of those by-gone days, but is always smiling back with me some happy memory.

      "You were the funniest boy, Bertram," she tells me, "always making believe that it was old England in Grassy Ford, and that you were Robin Hood or Lord Somebody or Earl Somebody Else. How father used to laugh at you! He said it was a pity you would never be knighted, and once he drew for you your escutcheon – you don't remember? Well, it had three books upon it —Tom Brown's School-days, Tales of a Grandfather, and the Morte d'Arthur."

      Then I remind her that Robin Saxeholm was half to blame for my early failure as an American. He was a Devonshire lad; he had been a Harrow boy, and was a Cambridge man when he came, one summer of my boyhood, to Grassy Ford to visit the Primroses. His father had been the doctor's dearest friend when they were boys together in Devonshire, and when young Robin's five-feet-eleven filled up the poet's doorway, Letitia tells me, the tears ran down the doctor's cheeks and he held out both his arms to him:

      "Robin Saxeholm! – you young Devon oak, you – tell me, does the Dart still run?"

      "He does, sir!" cried the young Englishman, speaking, Letitia says, quite in the Devon manner, for those who dwell upon the banks of that famous river find, it seems, something too human in its temper and changeful moods to speak of it in the neuter way.

      They sat an hour together, the poet and his old friend's son, before Letitia could show the guest to the room she had prepared for him.

      That was a summer!

      Robin taught me a kind of back-yard, two-old-cat cricket with a bat fashioned by his own big hands. Sometimes Letitia joined us, and the doctor watched us from his chair rolled out upon the garden walk, applauding each mighty play decorously, in the English fashion, with clapping hands. Robin Goodfellow, the doctor called our captain, "though a precious large one, I'll be bound," he said. Letitia called him Mr. Saxeholm, first – then Mr. Robin, and sometimes, laughingly, Mr. Bobbin – then Robin. I called him Mr. Bob.

      I made up my mind to one thing then and there: I should be happier when I grew old enough to wear white cricket flannels and a white hat like Mr. Bob's, and I hoped, and prayed too on my knees, that my skin would be as clear and pinkish – yes, and my hair as red. Alas! I had begun all wrong: I was a little beast of a brunette.

      I taught Mr. Bob baseball, showed him each hill and

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