I don't know much about such things."

"But everybody says it is."

"Want to know! Well, then 'twon't make much difference whether I say it
or not."

"But ain't you goin' to say a word to Albert about it, Zelotes?"

"Humph! I don't know's I know what to say."

"Why, say you like it."

"Ye-es, and if I do he'll keep on writin' more. That's exactly what I
don't want him to do. Come now, Mother, be sensible. This piece of his
may be good or it may not, _I_ wouldn't undertake to say. But this I do
know: I don't want the boy to spend his time writin' poetry slush for
that 'Poets' Corner.' Letitia Makepeace did that--she had a piece in
there about every week--and she died in the Taunton asylum."

"But, Zelotes, it wasn't her poetry got her into the asylum."

"Wan't it? Well, she was in the poorhouse afore that. I don't know
whether 'twas her poetryin' that got her in there, but I know darned
well it didn't get her out."

"But ain't you goin' to say one word? 'Twould encourage him so."

"Good Lord! We don't want to encourage him, do we? If he was takin' to
thievin' you wouldn't encourage him in that, would you?"

"Thievin'! Zelotes Snow, you don't mean to say you compare a poet to a
THIEF!"

The captain grinned. "No-o, Mother," he observed drily. "Sometimes a
thief can manage to earn a livin' at his job. But there, there, don't
feel bad. I'll say somethin' to Al, long's you think I ought to."

The something was not much, and yet Captain Zelotes really meant it to
be kindly and to sound like praise. But praising a thing of which you
have precious little understanding and with which you have absolutely no
sympathy is a hard job.

"See you had a piece in the Item this week, Al," observed the captain.

"Why--yes, sir," said Albert.

"Um-hm. I read it. I don't know much about such things, but they tell me
it is pretty good."

"Thank you, sir."

"Eh? Oh, you're welcome."

That was all. Perhaps considering its source it was a good deal, but
Albert was not of the age where such considerations are likely to be
made.

Helen's praise was warm and enthusiastic. "I knew you could do it if you
only would," she declared. "And oh, I'm SO glad you did! Now you must
keep on trying."

That bit of advice was quite superfluous. Young Speranza having sampled
the sublime intoxication of seeing himself in print, was not ready to
sober off yet a while. He continued to bombard the Item with verses.
They were invariably acce