t hand, so they might not betray me to
the editor of the Bartley _Conservator_, to whom I sent them, and by
whom they were published.

I say I never attempted poetry-writing save once; but sometimes when I
am working on a house, and think of all that must transpire within
it--of the precious ones who will escape, no matter how strongly I build
the walls; of the destroyer who will get in, in spite of the improved
locks I put on all my houses; of the darkness which cannot at times be
dispelled, no matter how large the windows, nor how perfect the glass
may be (I am very particular about the glass I put in); of the
occasional joys which seem meet for heavenly mansions not built by
contract; of the unseen heroisms greater than any that men have ever
cheered, and the conquests in comparison with which the achievements of
mighty kings are only as splintery hemlock to Georgia pine--when I think
of all this, I am so lifted above all that is prosaic and
matter-of-fact, that I am likely even to forget that I am working by
contract instead of by the day.

Besides, Markson's house was my first job on a residence, and it was a
large one, and I was young, and full of what I fancied were original
ideas of taste and effect; and as I was unmarried, and without any
special lady friend, I was completely absorbed in Markson's house.

How it would look when it was finished; what views it would command;
whether its architectural style was not rather subdued, considering the
picturesque old hemlocks which stood near by; what particular shade of
color would be effective alike to the distant observer and to those who
stood close by when the light reached it only through the green of the
hemlock; just what color and blending of slate to select, so the
steep-pitched roof should not impart a sombre effect to the whole house;
how much money I would make on it (for this is a matter of utter
uncertainty until your work is done, and you know what you've paid out
and what you get); whether Markson could influence his friends in my
favor; what sort of a family he had, and whether they were worthy of the
extra pains I was taking on their house--these and a thousand other
wonderings and reveries kept possession of my mind; while the natural
pride and hope and confidence of a young man turned to sweet music the
sound of saw and hammer and trowel, and even translated the rustling of
pine shavings with hopeful whispers.

The foundations had been laid, an