he had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle of
Bob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of a
wayside sapling.

"Hol' up, mister. Look here!"

Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backward
glance over his shoulder, said:--

"Drive 'longside the fence in the shadder." As Mr. Bowers obeyed,
Bob approached the wheels of the buggy in a manner half shy, half
mysterious. "You wanter buy them Summit woods, mister?"

"Well, per'aps, sonny. Why?" smiled Mr. Bowers.

"Coz I'll tell ye suthin'. Don't you be fooled into allowin' that
Cynthia wrote that po'try. She didn't--no more'n Eunice nor me. Mar
kinder let ye think it, 'cos she don't want folks to think SHE did it.
But mar wrote that po'try herself; wrote it out o' them thar woods--all
by herself. Thar's a heap more po'try thar, you bet, and jist as good.
And she's the one that kin write it--you hear me? That's my mar, every
time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po'try, and
you'll make your pile, sure! I ain't lyin'. You'd better look spry:
thar's another feller snoopin' 'round yere--only he barked up the wrong
tree, and thought it was Cynthia, jist as you did."

"Another feller?" repeated the astonished Bowers.

"Yes; a rig'lar sport. He was orful keen on that po'try, too, you bet.
So you'd better hump yourself afore somebody else cuts in. Mar got a