“That was kind and generous; I heard about it, and that emboldened me to come and see you—without any manuscript in my pocket!”
“I should like another handful like those ‘Journeys’ End’ pieces. There was a rare sort of joy in them, exultance, ardor. You had a line beginning—
‘If love should wait for May to come—’
that was like a bubble tossed into the air, quivering with life and flashing all manner of colors. And there was something about swallows darting down from the bank and skimming over the creek to cool their wings on the water. I liked that! I can see that you were a country boy; we learned the alphabet out of the same primer!”
“I have done my share of ploughing,” Fulton remarked a little later, after volunteering the few facts of his biography. “There are lots of things about corn that haven’t been put into rhyme just right; the smell of the up-turned earth, and the whisper and glisten of young leaves; the sweating horses as the sun climbs to the top, and the lonesome rumble of a wagon in the road, and the little cloud of dust that follows and drifts after it.”
“And little sister in a pink sunbonnet strolls down the lane with a jug of buttermilk about the time you begin to feel that Pharaoh has given you the hardest job in his brickyard! I’ve never had those experiences but”—the Poet laughed—“I’ve sat on the fence and watched other boys do it; so you’re just that much richer than I am by your experience. But we must be careful, though, or some evil spirit will come down the chimney and tell us we’re not academic! I suppose we ought to be threshing out old straw—you and I—writing of English skylarks and the gorse and the yew and nightingales, instead of what we see out of the window, here at home. How absurd of us! A scientist would be caught up quick enough if he wrote of something he knew nothing about—if, for example, an astronomer ventured to write an essay about the starfish; and yet there are critics who sniff at such poetry as yours and mine”—Fulton felt that the laurel had been pressed down on his brows by this correlation—“because it’s about corn and stake-and-rider fences with wild roses and elderberry blooming in the corners. You had a fine poem about the kingfisher—and I suppose it would be more likely to impress a certain type of austere critics if you’d written about some extinct bird you’d seen in a college museum! But, dear me, I’m doing all the talking!”
“I wish you would do much more. You’ve said just what I hoped you would; in fact, I came to-day because I had a blue day, and I needed to talk to some one, and I chose you. I know perfectly well that I ought really to quit bothering my head about rhyme. I get too much happiness out of it; it’s spoiling me for other things.”
“Let’s have all the story, then, if you really want to tell me,” said the Poet. “Most people give only half confidences,” he added.
“I went into newspaper work after I’d farmed my way through college. I’ve been with the ‘Chronicle’ three years, and I believe they say I’m a good reporter; but however that may be, I don’t see my way very far ahead. Promotions are uncertain, and the rewards of journalism at best are not great. And of course I haven’t any illusions about poetry—the kind I can do! I couldn’t live by it!”
He ended abruptly with an air of throwing all his cards on the table. The Poet picked up a paper-cutter and began idly tapping his knee with it.