man's letters was read aloud, and I recall, too, some
of his comments on his own verse, verbatim. In
one place he said: "I make no doubt you will find some purty SAD
spots in my poetry, considerin'; but
I hope you will bear in mind that I am a great
sufferer with rheumatizum, and have been, off and
on, sence the cold New Years. In the main, however,"
he continued, "I allus aim to write in a cheerful,
comfortin' sperit, so's ef the stuff hangs fire,
and don't do no good, it hain't a-goin' to do no
harm,--and them's my honest views on poetry."

In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem
had not appeared in print because of its dejected
tone, he said: "The poetry I herewith send was
wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes
on! I never felt better in my life. The morning air
was as invigoratin' as bitters with tanzy in it, and the
folks at breakfast said they never saw such a' appetite
on mortal man before. Then I lit out for the
barn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my
pen and ink out on the porch, and jest cut loose. I
writ and writ till my fingers was that cramped I
couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the
poem I send you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't
find it cheerful enough fer your columns, I'll have
to knock under, that's all!" And that poem, as I recall
it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication,
only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the
ink, too, so pale and vague, it was thought best to