d him, for he
recognized it to be the safest course the man could pursue, if he kept
to it. "But you don't mean to say," he protested, smiling, "that you can
write so excellent a poem as 'Bohemia' and then forget having done so?"

"I might," said Mr. Aram, unresentfully, and with little interest. "I
scribble a good deal."

"Perhaps," suggested the reporter, politely, with the air of one who is
trying to cover up a difficulty to the satisfaction of all, "Mr. Aram
would remember it if he saw it."

The editor nodded his head in assent, and took the first page of the two
on which the poem was written, and held it out to Mr. Aram, who accepted
the piece of foolscap and eyed it listlessly.

"Yes, I wrote that," he said. "I copied it out of a book called _Gems
from American Poets_." There was a lazy pause. "But I never sent it to
any paper." The editor and the reporter eyed each other with outward
calm but with some inward astonishment. They could not see why he had
not adhered to his original denial of the thing _in toto_. It seemed to
them so foolish, to admit having copied the poem and then to deny having
forwarded it.

"You see," explained Mr. Aram, still with no apparent interest in the
matter, "I am very fond of poetry; I like to recite it, and I often
write it out in order to make me remember it. I find it impresses the
words on my mind. Well, that's what has happened. I have copied this
poem out at the office probably, and one of the clerks there has found
it, and has supposed that I wrote it, and he has sent it to your paper
as a sort of a joke on me. You see, father being so well-known, it would
rather amuse the boys if I came out as a poet. That's how it was, I
guess. Somebody must have found it and sent it to you, because _I_ never
sent it."

There was a moment of thoughtful consideration. "I see," said the
editor. "I used to do that same thing myself when I had to recite pieces
at school. I found that writing the verses down helped me to remember
them. I remember that I once copied out many of Shakespeare's sonnets.
But, Mr. Aram, it never occurred to me, after having copied out one of
Shakespeare's sonnets, to sign my own name at the bottom of it."

Mr. Aram's eyes dropped to the page of manuscript in his hand and rested
there for some little time. Then he said, without raising his head, "I
haven't signed this."

"No," replied the editor; "but you signed the second page, which I still
have in my hand."