slight flush on his cheek. Don't ever think the poetry is dead in an old man because his forehead is wrinkled, or that his manhood has left him when his hand trembles! If they ever were there, they are there still!
By and by we got talking again. Does a poet love the verses written through him, do you think, Sir?—said the divinity-student.
So long as they are warm from his mind, carry any of his animal heat about them, I know he loves them,—I answered. When they have had time to cool, he is more indifferent.
A good deal as it is with buckwheat cakes,—said the young fellow whom they call John.
The last words, only, reached the ear of the economically organized female in black bombazine. Buckwheat is skerce and high,—she remarked. [Must be a poor relation sponging on our landlady,—pays nothing,—so she must stand by the guns and be ready to repel boarders.]
I liked the turn the conversation had taken, for I had some things I wanted to say, and so, after waiting a minute, I began again.—I don't think the poems I read you sometimes can be fairly appreciated, given to you as they are in the green state.
You don't know what I mean by the green state? Well, then, I will tell you. Certain things are good for nothing until they have been kept a long while; and some are good for nothing until
