"Why Razorre, so you _have_ come that near to being in print?" I showed
him the poems. "Yes, you have the making of a real poet in you!"
A day or so after he approached me with--"I'm writing a brief visit to
the home of Thoreau ... how would you like to compose a poem for me, on
him--for the first page of the work?"
"I would like it very much," I said. In a few days I handed him the
poem. A "sonnet," the form of which I myself had invented, in fifteen
lines.
* * * * *
For days I lived in an intoxication of anticipation ... just to have one
poem printed, I was certain, would mean my immediate fame ... so
thoroughly did I believe in my genius. I was sure that instantly all of
the publishers in the world would contend with each other for the
privilege of bringing out my books.
Spring had begun to give hints of waking green, when _The Brief Visit_
was issued from the press. I rushed to procure a copy before it was
bound. I was surprised and dumbfounded to find that the Master had used
the poem without my name attached ... just as if it, with the rest of
the book, was from his own pen.
My first impulse was to rush into the dining hall, at breakfast, Waving
the sheets, and calling "John" to account for his theft, before
everybody ... then I bethought myself that, perhaps, some mistake had
been made ... that the proofreader might have left my name out.
Spalton looked up quickly as I passed by his table. He read in my face
that I had already discovered what he had done. He blushed. I nodded him
a stiff greeting. I ate in silence--at the furthest table.
In a few minutes he did me an honour he had never shown me before. He
came over to where I sat. "Razorre," he invited, "how would you like to
take a hike with me into the country, this morning?"