He still boarded at the Portville House, occupying the same room which his predecessor had left to him. Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones still continued her attentions to the new teacher, and seemed disposed to get up a flirtation with him. But Walter wisely thought that he was too young for that, nor were the attractions of Miss Jones, who was more than ten years his senior, sufficiently great to turn his head. Still, he occasionally passed an evening in company with her and her brother, and on such occasions was generally called upon to listen to some poetic effusion from the prolific pen of Miss Jones. In general they were in manuscript, editors generally not appreciating Miss Jones’ poems. One evening, however, the poetess exhibited to her young visitor, with great complacency, a copy of a small weekly paper published at a neighboring township, in which appeared, in a conspicuous place:--
“LINES ON AN AUTUMN LEAF,”
BY MELINDA ATHANASIA JONES.”
These she had sent to the editor with a year’s subscription to the paper, which perhaps operated upon the editor’s judgment, and led to a flattering editorial reference to the verses. Miss Jones called Walter’s attention to it.
“See what a kind notice the editor has of my poor verses,” she said, reading aloud the following paragraph:
“We welcome to our columns this week ‘Lines on an Autumn Leaf,’ by Miss Jones. The fair authoress will please accept our thanks.”
“Read the lines, Melinda,” said Ichabod, her brother.
“I don’t know but Mr. Howard will find them tiresome,” she said, modestly.
“Please read them, Miss Jones,” said Walter, politely.
Thus invited, the young lady read, in an affected voice, the following verses, which it is to be hoped the reader will admire: