“Oh, you have a libel on me here!” cried the poet, laughing joyously—“a very bad likeness. Wait! I have several much better; here they are—” And he rushed into the next room, tumbled over a lot of papers, and ransacked a number of drawers till he found the desired package—“here’s a dozen of them; take your choice; help yourself—as many as you please!” While looking over the collection, I said the likeness of one who had done so much to promote the happiness of some little friends I had at home would be valued beyond measure; that I knew at least half a dozen youngsters who were as well acquainted with the “Little Match Girl,” and the “Ugly Duck,” and the “Poor Idiot Boy,” as he was himself, and his name was as familiar in California as it was in Denmark. At this he grasped both my hands, and looking straight in my face with a kind of ecstatic expression, said, “Oh, is it possible? Do they really read my books in California? so far away! Oh! I thank you very much. Some of my stories, I am aware, have been published in New York, but I did not think they had found their way to the Pacific Coast. Dear me! Thank you! thank you! Have you seen my last—the—what do you call it in English?—a little animal—”
“Mouse,” I suggested.
“No, not a mouse; a little animal with wings.”
“Oh, a bat!”
“Nay, nay, a little animal with wings and many legs. Dear me! I forget the name in English, but you certainly know it in America—a very small animal!”
In vain I tried to make a selection from all the little animals of my acquaintance with wings and many legs. The case was getting both embarrassing and vexatious. At length a light broke upon me.
“A musquito!” I exclaimed, triumphantly.
“Nay, nay!” cried the bothered poet; “a little animal with a hard skin on its back. Dear me, I can’t remember the name!”
“Oh, I have it now,” said I, really desirous of relieving his mind—“a flea!”