the proofs corrected, and the gentlemen who had come with ideas worth
one column at space rates, and which they thought worth three, had
compromised with the editor on a basis of two, and departed. The
editor's desk was covered with manuscripts in a heap, a heap that never
seemed to grow less, and each manuscript bore a character of its own, as
marked or as unobtrusive as the character of the man or of the woman who
had written it, which disclosed itself in the care with which some were
presented for consideration, in the vain little ribbons of others, or
the selfish manner in which still others were tightly rolled or vilely
scribbled.

The editor held the first page of a poem in his hand, and was reading it
mechanically, for its length had already declared against it, unless it
might chance to be the precious gem out of a thousand, which must be
chosen in spite of its twenty stanzas. But as the editor read, his
interest awakened, and he scanned the verses again, as one would turn to
look a second time at a face which seemed familiar. At the fourth stanza
his memory was still in doubt, at the sixth it was warming to the chase,
and at the end of the page was in full cry. He caught up the second page
and looked for the final verse, and then at the name below, and then
back again quickly to the title of the poem, and pushed aside the papers
on his desk in search of any note which might have accompanied it.

The name signed at the bottom of the second page was Edwin Aram, the
title of the poem was "Bohemia," and there was no accompanying note,
only the name Berkeley written at the top of the first page. The
envelope in which it had come gave no further clew. It was addressed in
the same handwriting as that in which the poem had been written, and it
bore the post-mark of New York city. There was no request for the return
of the poem, no direction to which either the poem itself or the check