ressed
with the idea that poets generally were bad men, and she regarded the
waste-basket as a possible means of protecting herself against any such
idiosyncrasies of her new-found genius as would operate to her
disadvantage if not looked after in time.

This waste-basket she made it her daily duty to empty, and in the privacy
of her own room. Half-finished "ballads, songs, and snatches" she perused
before consigning them to the flames or to the large jute bag in the
cellar, for which the ragman called two or three times a year. Once Mrs.
Pedagog's heart almost stopped beating when she found at the bottom of
the basket a printed slip beginning, "_The Editor regrets that the
enclosed lines are unavailable_," and closing with about thirteen
reasons, any one or all of which might have been the main cause of the
poet's disappointment. Had it not been for the kindly clause in the
printed slip that insinuated in graceful terms that this rejection did
not imply a lack of literary merit in the contribution itself, the good
lady, knowing well that there was even less money to be made from
rejected than from accepted poetry, would have been inclined to request
the poet to vacate the premises. The very next day, however, she was glad
she had not requested the resignation of the poet from the laureateship
of her house; for the same basket gave forth another printed slip from
another editor, begging the poet to accept the enclosed check, with
thanks for his contribution, and asking him to deposit it as soon as
practicable--which was pleasing enough, since it implied that the poet
was the possessor of a bank account.

Now Mrs. Pedagog was consumed with curiosity to know for how large a sum
the check called--which desire was gratified a few days later, when the
inspired boarder paid his week's bill with three one-dollar bills and a
check, signed by a well-known publisher, for two dollars.

[Illustration: THE INSPIRED BOARDER PAID HIS BILL]

By the boarders themselves the poet was regarded with much interest.
The School-Master had read one or two of his effusions in the Fireside
Corner of the journal he received weekly from his home up in New
England--effusions which showed no little merit, as well as indicating
that Mr. Warren wrote for a literary syndicate; Mr. Whitechoker had known
of him as the young man who was to have written a Christmas carol for his
Sunday-school a year before, and who had finished and presented the
manuscr