he was nineteen he was first mate of a ship."

"Yes, so I've heard him say. Maybe first-mating is a little bit easier
than writing poetry."

"And maybe it isn't. At any rate, he didn't know whether it was easy or
not until he tried. Oh, THAT'S what I would like to see you do--TRY
to do something. You could do it, too, almost anything you tried, I do
believe. I am confident you could. But--Oh, well, as you said at the
beginning, it isn't my business at all, and I've said ever and ever so
much more than I meant to. Please forgive me, if you can. I think my
tumble and all the rest must have made me silly. I'm sorry, Albert.
There are the steps up to the pavilion. See them!"

He was tramping on beside her, his hands in his pockets. He did not look
at the long flight of steps which had suddenly come into view around the
curve of the bluff. When he did look up and speak it was in a different
tone, some such tone as she had heard him use during her rescue.

"All right," he said, with decision, "I'll show you whether I can try
or not. I know you think I won't, but I will. I'm going up to my room
to-night and I'm going to try to write something or other. It may be the
rottenest poem that ever was ground out, but I'll grind it if it kills
me."

She was pleased, that was plain, but she shook her head.

"Not to-night, Albert," she said. "To-night, after the picnic, is
Father's reception at the church. Of course you'll come to that."

"Of course I won't. Look here, you've called me lazy and indifferent and
a hundred other pet names this afternoon. Well, this evening I'll make
you take some of 'em back. Reception be hanged! I'm going to write
to-night."

That evening both Mrs. Snow and Rachel Ellis were much disturbed because
Albert, pleading a headache, begged off from attendance at the reception
to the Reverend Mr. Kendall. Either, or both ladies would have been only
too willing to remain at home and nurse the sufferer through his attack,
but he refused to permit the sacrifice on their part. After they had
gone his headache disappeared and, supplied with an abundance of paper,
pens and ink, he sat down at the table in his room to invoke the Muse.
The invocation lasted until three A. M. At that hour, with a genuine
headache, but a sense of triumph which conquered pain, Albert climbed
into bed. Upon the table lay a poem, a six stanza poem, having these
words at its head:

TO MY LADY'S SPRING HAT
By A.