The editor, glancing after his handsome figure and hearing him take
up his pretermitted whistle as he passed out, began to think that the
contingent dinner was by no means an inevitable prospect.

Howbeit, he plunged once more into his monotonous duties. But the
freshness of the day seemed to have departed with Jack, and the
later interruptions of foreman and publisher were of a more practical
character. It was not until the post arrived that the superscription on
one of the letters caught his eye, and revived his former interest.
It was the same hand as that of his unknown contributor's
manuscript--ill-formed and boyish. He opened the envelope. It contained
another poem with the same signature, but also a note--much longer than
the brief lines that accompanied the first contribution--was scrawled
upon a separate piece of paper. This the editor opened first, and read
the following, with an amazement that for the moment dominated all other
sense:--


MR. EDITOR,--I see you have got my poetry in. But I don't see the
spondulix that oughter follow. Perhaps you don't know where to send it.
Then I'll tell you. Send the money to Lock Box 47, Green Springs P.
O., per Wells Fargo's Express, and I'll get it there, on account of my
parents not knowing. We're very high-toned, and they would think it's
low making poetry for papers. Send amount usually paid for poetry in
your papers. Or may be you think I make poetry for nothing? That's where
you slip up!

Yours truly,

WHITE VIOLET.