urpose."

"Did you so?" exclaimed Mr. Homer, his mild face growing radiant with
pleasure. "That was kind, James; that was--friendly; that
was--benevolent! I shall value it highly, highly. I thank you, James.
I--since you are interested in the lamented Keats, perhaps you would
like"--his hand went with a fluttering motion to his pocket.

"I must go now," said Doctor Stedman, hastily. "I've stayed too long
already, but I never know how to get away from this house. Good night,
Phoebe! Good night, Vesta! You are looking a little tired; take care
of yourself. 'Night, Homer; see you to-morrow!"

He shook hands heartily all around and was gone.

Mr. Homer sighed gently. "It is a great pity," he said, "with his
excellent disposition, that James will never interest himself in
literary pursuits."

His hand was still fluttering about his pocket, and there was an
unspoken appeal in his mild brown eyes.

"Have you brought something to read to us, Cousin Homer?" asked Miss
Phoebe, benevolently.

Mr. Homer with alacrity drew a folded paper from his pocket.

"This is--you may be aware, Cousin Phoebe--the anniversary of the
birth of the lamented Keats. I always like to pay some tribute to his
memory on these occasions, and I have here a slight thing--I tossed it
off after breakfast this morning--which I confess I should like to read
to you. You know how highly I value your opinion, Cousin Phoebe, and
some criticism may suggest itself to you, though I trust that in the
main--but you shall judge for yourself."

He cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, and began:

"Thoughts suggested by the Anniversary of the Natal Day of the poet
Keats."

"Could you find it convenient not to rock, Cousin Homer?" said Miss
Phoebe.

"By all means, Cousin Phoebe. I beg your pardon. 'Thoughts'--but I
need not repeat the title.

"I asked the Muse if she had one
Thrice-favored son,
Or if some one poetic brother
Appealed to her more than another.
She gazed on me with aspect high,
And tear in eye,
While musically she repeats,
'Keats!'

"She gave me then to understand,
And smiled bland,
On Helicon the sacred Nine
Occasionally ask bards to dine.
'For most,' she said, 'we do not move,
Though we approve;
For one alone we leave our seats:
"Keats!"'"

There was a silence after the reading of the poem. Mr. Homer, slightly
flushed with hi