name--'Hezekiah Butterworth.'"

"But that is his own name," said the editor.

"Indeed; I am afraid I shall hate that Hezzy."

"Well, just try it; come with me to his work-room."

When we had gone up one flight, Mr. Ford opened a door, where a
gentle, sweet-faced young man of slender build was sitting at a table,
the floor all around him literally strewn with at least three hundred
manuscripts, each one to be examined as a possible winner in a contest
for a five-hundred-dollar prize story. Both English and American
authors had competed. He was, as De Quincey put it, "snowed up." Then
my friend said with a laugh, "Miss Sanborn has come to see Hezzy whom
she fancies she shall hate." A painfully awkward introduction, but Mr.
Butterworth laughed heartily, and made me very welcome, and from that
time was ever one of my most faithful friends, honouring my large
Thanksgiving parties by his presence for many years.

I shall tell but two stories about my father in his classroom. He had
given Pope's _Rape of the Lock_ as subject for an essay to a young man
who had not the advantage of being born educated, but did his best at
all times. As the young man read on in class, father, who in later
years was a little deaf, stopped him saying, "Sir, did I understand
you to say Sniff?" "No, sir, I did not, I said Slyph."

In my father's Latin classes there were many absurd mistakes, as when
he asked a student, "What was ambrosia?" and the reply was, "The gods'
hair oil," an answer evidently suggested by the constant advertisement