see me, Morg,' sez he. 'Milt,' sez I, 'he do; a borned poet like
you and a gifted genius like he oughter come together sociable!' And I
fetched him. Ah, will yer?" The born poet had, after exhibiting signs
of great distress, started to run. But Mr. McCorkle was down upon him
instantly, seizing him by his long linen coat, and settled him back in
his chair. "Tain't no use stampeding. Yer ye are and yer ye stays. For
yer a borned poet,--ef ye are as shy as a jackass rabbit. Look at 'im
now!"

He certainly was not an attractive picture. There was hardly a notable
feature in his weak face, except his eyes, which were moist and shy and
not unlike the animal to which Mr. McCorkle had compared him. It was the
face that the editor had seen at the window.

"Knowed him for fower year,--since he war a boy," continued Mr. McCorkle
in a loud whisper. "Allers the same, bless you! Can jerk a rhyme as easy
as turnin' jack. Never had any eddication; lived out in Missooray all
his life. But he's chock full o' poetry. On'y this mornin' sez I to
him,--he camps along o' me,--'Milt!' sez I, 'are breakfast ready?' and
he up and answers back quite peert and chipper, 'The breakfast it is
ready, and the birds is singing free, and it's risin' in the dawnin'
light is happiness to me!' When a man," said Mr. McCorkle, dropping his
voice with deep solemnity, "gets off things like them, without any
call to do it, and handlin' flapjacks over a cookstove at the same
time,--that man's a borned poet."

There was an awkward pause. Mr. McCorkle beamed patronizingly on
his protege. The born poet looked as if he were meditating another
flight,--not a metaphorical one. The editor asked if he could do
anything for them.

"In course you can," responded Mr. McCorkle, "that's jest it. Milt,
where's that poetry!"

The editor's countenance fell as the poet produced from his pocket a
roll of manuscript. He, however, took it mechanically and glanced over
it. It was evidently a duplicate of the former mysterious contribution.

The editor then spoke briefly but earnestly. I regret that I cannot
recall his exact words, but it appeared that never before, in the
history of the "Record," had the pressure been so great upon its
columns. Matters of paramount importance, deeply affecting the material
progress of Sierra, questions touching the absolute integrity of
Calaveras and Tuolumne as social communities, were even now waiting
expression. Weeks, nay, months, must el