make
such publicity necessary.

The paper was properly signed, witnessed, and sealed. The pastor put it
in his pocket, looked wonderingly at the applicant, and said, "The
poorhouse is but a mean place, with accommodation for a few persons, and
the present occupants are of the humblest sort. There are now living
there an old woman, formerly a servant in respectable families, who has
a room to herself; a half-mad fellow, who will not speak when spoken to
unless he can hit on some way of answering in rhyme. He, of course, has
a room to himself. There is, besides, a large room with sleeping-places
for two persons. One of these places is occupied by an old man who has
been a hard drinker; you would have to share the room with him. Would
you be contented with that arrangement?"

"Contented and grateful," said the stranger. His name was given as "A.
Johanson," and was so registered in the pastor's note-book. Particular
directions were then kindly lavished on the stranger as to how he was to
reach his future home.

A peculiar smile stole over the face of the listener. He took politely
the permit which ensured his admittance at the last refuge of the
unfortunate, and then, with a bow and a slight waving of the limp hat,
he disappeared.

CHAPTER III.

IN THE POORHOUSE.

The poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of
antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which
it was now used.

It was not difficult for Johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. His
room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. On his own
door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen
occupation:--

"I take my bag,
My legs my nag,
And never fail
To fetch the mail."

So ran the poor rhymes, yet the mad poet had not given himself his full
meed of praise. No storm was too wild, no cold too severe, no snow too
deep for the faithful mail-carrier to make his rounds. Rather than give
up the leathern bag entrusted to him to teasing country boys or
desperate highwayman, he would have died in its defence.

The principle of growth had exerted its power eccentrically with the
poorhouse poet. His legs and neck were elongated out of all proportion
to the rest of his body. His small, pale face was raised unnaturally
high in the air, as if he had suffered decapitation and his head had
been posted as an assurance that offended law had been avenged.
Unconscious of h