Master Gridley could not quite make up his mind to stay through the interview between the young poet and the publisher.  The flush of hope was bright in Gifted’s eye and cheek, and the good man knew that young hearts are apt to be over-sanguine, and that one who enters a shower-bath often feels very differently from the same person when he has pulled the string.

“I have brought you my Poems in the original autographs, sir,” said Mr. Gifted Hopkins.

He laid the manuscript on the table, caressing the leaves still with one hand, as loath to let it go.

“What disposition had you thought of making of them?” the publisher asked, in a pleasant tone.  He was as kind a man as lived, though he worked the chief engine in a chamber of torture.

“I wish to read you a few specimens of the poems,” he said, “with reference to their proposed publication in a volume.”

“By all means,” said the kind publisher, who determined to be very patient with the protege of the hitherto little-known, but remarkable writer, Professor Gridley.  At the same time he extended his foot in an accidental sort of way, and pressed it on the right hand knob of three which were arranged in a line beneath the table.  A little bell in a distant apartment—­the little bell marked C—­gave one slight note; loud enough to start a small boy up, who looked at the clock, and knew that he was to go and call the publisher in just twenty-five minutes.  “A, five minutes; B, ten minutes; C, twenty-five minutes “;—­that was the youngster’s working formula.  Mr. Hopkins was treated to the full allowance of time, as being introduced by Professor Gridley.

The young man laid open the manuscript so that the title-page, written out very handsomely in his own hand, should win the eye of the publisher.

Blossoms of the soul. 
A wreath of verse; Original.

By gifted Hopkins.

“a youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.”—­Gray.

“Shall I read you some of the rhymed pieces first, or some of the blank-verse poems, sir?” Gifted asked.

“Read what you think is best,—­a specimen of your first-class style of composition.”

“I will read you the very last poem I have written,” he said, and he began: 

“The triumph of song.

“I met that gold-haired maiden, all too dear;
And I to her:  Lo! thou art very fair,
Fairer than all the ladies in the world
That fan the sweetened air with scented fans,
And I am scorched with exceeding love,
Yea, crisped till my bones are dry as straw. 
Look not away with that high-arched brow,
But turn its whiteness that I may behold,
And lift thy great eyes till they blaze on mine,
And lay thy finger on thy perfect mouth,
And let thy lucent ears of careen pearl
Drink in the murmured music of my soul,
As the lush grass drinks in the globed dew;
For I have many scrolls of sweetest rhyme
I will unroll and make thee glad to hear.