reserve the verses, for the time, at least, and later on
revise, copy, punctuate, and then print it sometime,
as much for the joke of it as anything. But it
was still delayed, neglected, and in a week's time
almost entirely forgotten. And so it was upon this
chill and somber afternoon I speak of that an event
occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of
both the poem with the "sad spots" in it, and the
"cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch" that glorious
autumn day, that poured its glory through the
old man's letter to us.

Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too
oppressive to permit an elevated tendency of either
thought or spirit. I could do nothing but sit listless
and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but
I could not write--I could not even think coherently,
and was on the point of rising and rushing out into
the streets for a wild walk, when there came a
hesitating knock at the door.

"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and
assuming a frightfully industrious air: "Come in!"
I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! And shut the
door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my
gaze fixedly upon the blank pages before me and
began scrawling some disconnected nothings with
no head or tail or anything.

"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And