maginative nature.
Cyprian was dark, slender, sensitive, contemplative, a lover of lonely
walks,--one who listened for the whispers of Nature and watched her
shadows, and was alive to the symbolisms she writes over everything. But
Cyprian had never shown the talent or the inclination for writing in
verse.

He was on the pleasantest terms with the young poet, and being somewhat
older, and having had the advantage of academic and college culture,
often gave him useful hints as to the cultivation of his powers, such as
genius frequently requires at the hands of humbler intelligences.
Cyprian was incapable of jealousy; and although the name of Gifted
Hopkins was getting to be known beyond the immediate neighborhood, and
his autograph had been requested by more than one young lady living in
another county, he never thought of envying the young poet's spreading
popularity.

That the poet himself was flattered by these marks of public favor may be
inferred from the growing confidence with which he expressed himself in
his conversations with Cyprian, more especially in one which was held at
the "store" where he officiated as "clerk."

"I become more and more assured, Cyprian," he said, leaning over the
counter, "that I was born to be a poet. I feel it in my marrow. I must
succeed. I must win the laurel of fame. I must taste the sweets of"--

"Molasses," said a bareheaded girl of ten who entered at that moment,
bearing in her hand a cracked pitcher, "ma wants three gills of
molasses."

Gifted Hopkins dropped his subject and took up a tin measure. He served
the little maid with a benignity quite charming to witness, made an entry
on a slate of .08, and resumed the conversation.

"Yes, I am sure of it, Cyprian. The very last piece I wrote was copied
in two papers. It was 'Contemplations in Autumn,' and--don't think I am
too vain--one young lady has told me that it reminded her of Pollok. You
never wrote in verse, did you, Cyprian?"

"I never wrote at all, Gifted, except school and college exercises, and a
letter now and then. Do you find it an easy and pleasant exercise to
make rhymes?"

Pleasant! Poetry is to me a delight and a passion. I never know what I
am going to write when I sit down. And presently the rhymes begin
pounding in my brain,--it seems as if there were a hundred couples of
them, paired like so many dancers,--and then these rhymes seem to take
possession of me, like a surprise party, and bri