rk in his
study late one snowy night when his doorbell sounded. Outside stood
a man with his coat buttoned close about his throat--evidently a
gentleman--who asked him politely for a sheet of paper and a pen. You
know the judge, and how kind and considerate he is. Well, of course he
asked him in, drew out a chair at his desk and stepped into the next
room to leave him undisturbed. After a time, not hearing him move, he
looked in and to his surprise the stranger had disappeared. On the desk
lay a sheet of paper on which was written three verses of a poem. It was
his 'Bells.' The judge has had them framed, so I hear. There was enough
snow on the ground to bring out the cutters, and Poe had the rhythm of
the bells ringing in his head and being afraid he would forget it he
pulled the judge's doorbell. I wish he'd rung mine. I must get the poem
for you, Harry--it's as famous now as 'The Raven.' Richard, I hear,
reads it so that you can distinguish the sound of each bell."

"Well, he taught me a lesson," said Harry, tucking the blanket close
around his uncle's knees--"one I have never forgotten, and never will.
He sent me to bed a wreck, I remember, but I got up the next morning
with a new mast in me and all my pumps working."

"You mean--" and St. George smiled meaningly and tossed his hand up as
if emptying a glass.

"Yes--just that--" rejoined Harry with a nod. "It's so hot out where
I have been that a glass of native rum is as bad as a snake bite and
everybody except a native leaves it alone. But if I had gone to the
North Pole instead of the equator I would have done the same. Men like
you and father, and Mr. Richard Horn and Mr. Kennedy, who have been
brought up on moderation, may feel as they choose about it, but I'm
going to let it alone. It's the devil when it gets into your blood and
mine's not made for it. I'd like to thank Mr. Poe if I dared, which
I wouldn't, of course, if I ever saw him, for what he did for me. I
wouldn't be surprised if he would give a good deal himself to do the
same--or has he pulled out?"

"He never has pulled in, Harry--not continuously. Richard has the right
of it. Poe is a man pursued by a devil and lives always on the watch to
prevent the fiend from getting the best of him. Months at a time he
wins and then there comes a day when the devil gets on top. He says
himself--he told me this the last time I saw him--that he really lives
a life devoted to his literary work; that he shuts him