ood,
it hain't a-goin' to do no harm,--and them's my honest views on
poetry."

In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had not appeared in
print because of its dejected tone, he said: "The poetry I herewith
send was wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on! I
never felt better in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' as
bitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said they never
saw such a' appetite on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the
barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my pen and ink out on
the porch, and jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers was
that cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the poem I
send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't find it cheerful enough
fer your columns, I'll have to knock under, that's all!" And that
poem, as I recall it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication,
only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so pale
and vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, for the time, at
least, and later on revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it
sometime, as much for the joke of it as anything. But it was still
delayed, neglected, and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten.
And so it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of that an
event occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of both the poem with
the "sad spots" in it, and the "cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch"
that glorious autumn day that poured its glory through the old man's
letter to us.

Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too oppressive to permit an
elevated tendency of either thought or spirit. I could do nothing but
sit listless and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but I could
not write--I could not even think coherently, and was on the point of
rising and rushing out into the streets for a wild walk, when there
came a hesitating knock at the door.

"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and assuming a frightfully
industrious air: "Come in!" I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! And
shut the door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my gaze fixedly
upon the blank pages before me and began scrawling some disconnected
nothings with no head or tail or anything.

"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And at once, in spite of
my perverse resolve, I looked up. I someway felt rebuked.

The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing the door. I could
hardly face him w