"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?"
I gave him a swift glance. "I would like it very much."