“But don't you think it's real sort of pretty, Zelotes?” she asked.
The captain grunted again. “Why, I guess likely 'tis if you say so, Mother. I don't know much about such things.”
“But everybody says it is.”
“Want to know! Well, then 'twon't make much difference whether I say it or not.”
“But ain't you goin' to say a word to Albert about it, Zelotes?”
“Humph! I don't know's I know what to say.”
“Why, say you like it.”
“Ye-es, and if I do he'll keep on writin' more. That's exactly what I don't want him to do. Come now, Mother, be sensible. This piece of his may be good or it may not, I wouldn't undertake to say. But this I do know: I don't want the boy to spend his time writin' poetry slush for that 'Poets' Corner.' Letitia Makepeace did that—she had a piece in there about every week—and she died in the Taunton asylum.”
“But, Zelotes, it wasn't her poetry got her into the asylum.”
“Wan't it? Well, she was in the poorhouse afore that. I don't know whether 'twas her poetryin' that got her in there, but I know darned well it didn't get her out.”