“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“But ain't you goin' to say one word? 'Twould encourage him so.”
“Good Lord! We don't want to encourage him, do we? If he was takin' to thievin' you wouldn't encourage him in that, would you?”
“Thievin'! Zelotes Snow, you don't mean to say you compare a poet to a THIEF!”
The captain grinned. “No-o, Mother,” he observed drily. “Sometimes a thief can manage to earn a livin' at his job. But there, there, don't feel bad. I'll say somethin' to Al, long's you think I ought to.”
The something was not much, and yet Captain Zelotes really meant it to be kindly and to sound like praise. But praising a thing of which you have precious little understanding and with which you have absolutely no sympathy is a hard job.
“See you had a piece in the Item this week, Al,” observed the captain.
“Um-hm. I read it. I don't know much about such things, but they tell me it is pretty good.”
That was all. Perhaps considering its source it was a good deal, but Albert was not of the age where such considerations are likely to be made.
Helen's praise was warm and enthusiastic. “I knew you could do it if you only would,” she declared. “And oh, I'm SO glad you did! Now you must keep on trying.”
That bit of advice was quite superfluous. Young Speranza having sampled the sublime intoxication of seeing himself in print, was not ready to sober off yet a while. He continued to bombard the Item with verses. They were invariably accepted, but when he sent to a New York magazine a poem which he considered a gem, the promptness with which it was returned staggered his conceit and was in that respect a good thing for him.