yme!

Judge,--budge,--drudge,--nudge, oh!--smudge,--misery!--fudge. In
vain,--futile,--no use,--all up for to-night!"

While the poet, headed off in this way by the poverty of his native
tongue, sought inspiration by retiring into the world of dreams,--went to
bed, in short, his more fortunate rival was just entering the village,
where he was to make his brief residence at the house of Deacon Rumrill,
who, having been a loser by the devouring element, was glad to receive a
stray boarder when any such were looking about for quarters.

For some reason or other he was restless that evening, and took out a
volume he had brought with him to beguile the earlier hours of the night.
It was too late when he arrived to disturb the quiet of Mrs. Hopkins's
household, and whatever may have been Clement's impatience, he held it in
check, and sat tranquilly until midnight over the pages of the book with
which he had prudently provided himself.

"Hope you slept well last night," said the old Deacon, when Mr. Clement
came down to breakfast the next morning.

"Very well, thank you,--that is, after I got to bed. But I sat up pretty
late reading my favorite Scott. I am apt to forget how the hours pass
when I have one of his books in my hand."

The worthy Deacon looked at Mr. Clement with a sudden accession of
interest.

"You couldn't find better reading, young man. Scott is my favorite
author. A great man. I have got his likeness in a gilt-frame hanging up
in the other room. I have read him all through three times."

The young man's countenance brightened. He had not expected to find so
much taste for elegant literature in an old village deacon.

"What are your favorites among his writings, Deacon? I suppose you have
your particular likings, as the rest of us have."

The Deacon was flattered by the question. "Well," he answered, "I can
hardly tell you. I like pretty much everything Scott ever wrote.
Sometimes I think it is one thing, and sometimes another. Great on
Paul's Epistles,--don't you think so?"

The honest fact was, that Clement remembered very little about "Paul's
Letters to his Kinsfolk,"--a book of Sir Walter's less famous than many
of his others; but he signified his polite assent to the Deacon's
statement, rather wondering at his choice of a favorite, and smiling at
his queer way of talking about the Letters as Epistles.

"I am afraid Scott is not so much read now-a-days as he once was, and as
he oug