apse before that pressure would
be removed, and the "Record" could grapple with any but the sternest of
topics. Again, the editor had noticed with pain the absolute decline
of poetry in the foot-hills of the Sierras. Even the works of Byron and
Moore attracted no attention in Dutch Flat, and a prejudice seemed to
exist against Tennyson in Grass Valley. But the editor was not without
hope for the future. In the course of four or five years, when the
country was settled,--

"What would be the cost to print this yer?" interrupted Mr. McCorkle,
quietly.

"About fifty dollars, as an advertisement," responded the editor with
cheerful alacrity.

Mr. McCorkle placed the sum in the editor's hand. "Yer see thet's what
I sez to Milt, 'Milt,' sez I, 'pay as you go, for you are a borned
poet. Hevin no call to write, but doin' it free and spontaneous like, in
course you pays. Thet's why Mr. Editor never printed your poetry.'"

"What name shall I put to it?" asked the editor.

"Milton."

It was the first word that the born poet had spoken during the
interview, and his voice was so very sweet and musical that the editor
looked at him curiously, and wondered if he had a sister.

"Milton; is that all?"

"Thet's his furst name," exclaimed Mr. McCorkle.

The editor here suggested that as there had been another poet of that
name--

"Milt might be took for him! Thet's bad," reflected Mr. McCorkle with
simple gravity. "Well, put down his hull name,--Milton Chubbuck."

The editor made a note of the fact. "I'll set it up now," he said. This
was also a hint that the interview was ended. The poet and patron, arm
in arm, drew towards the door. "In next week's paper," said the editor,
smilingly, in answer to the childlike look of inquiry in the eyes of the
poet, and in another moment they were gone.

The editor was as good as his word. He straight-way betook himself to
his case, and, unrolling the manuscript, began his task. The woodpeckers
on the roof recommenced theirs, and in a few moments the former sylvan
seclusion was restored. There was no sound in the barren, barn-like room
but the birds above, and below the click of the composing-rule as the
editor marshalled the types into lines in his stick, and arrayed them in
solid column on the galley. Whatever might have been his opinion of the
copy before him, there was no indication of it in his face, which wore
the stolid indifference of his craft. Perhaps this was unfortunate, for