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:
“O yellow dying leaf,
Thy life has been very brief,
Only a summer day,
And now thou art wasting away.
But yesterday thou wert green,
And didst grace the woodland scene,
And the song of the tuneful bird
Under thy shadow was heard.
Now thou art yellow and sere,
For it is the fall of the year,
And soon thou wilt fall from the tree,
And thy place will vacant be.
Thou wilt be trampled under foot,
Beneath the wayfarer’s boot.
Even such, it seems to me,
My journey of life must be.
Green in the early spring,
And the flowers their fragrance fling,
But when the autumn days appear,
Toward the close of the year,
Withered my roses will be,
And my leaves will fall from the tree,
And the winds will moan--will moan--
And I shall be overthrown!
Oh, it makes me pensive and sad,
As I view thee, dying leaf,
And sorrow rends my heart,
And sighs afford relief.”
“Melindy wrote that in half an hour, Mr. Howard,” said the admiring Ichabod. “I timed her. I never knew her to do up a poem so quick before. Generally she has to stop a long time between the verses, and rolls her eyes, and bites the end of her pen-handle; but this time she wrote it off like two-forty.”
“Because I gave my heart to it, Ichabod,” explained his sister. “The lines seemed to flow right from my pen.”
“The muses inspired you,” suggested Walter.
“You are very kind to say so, Mr. Howard. I am too humble to think so. The lines were written in a sad and pensive mood, as you will guess. But I find it sweet to be sad at times--don’t you?”
“I don’t think I do,” said our hero.
“I’d rather be jolly, a good deal,” said Ichabod.
“Tastes differ,” said the hostess. “I am of a pensive, thoughtful temperament, and at times my thoughts go roaming away from the world around me, and I seem to live in a world of my own. ’Twas so with Byron and Mrs. Hemans, I have been told.”
“I am glad I ain’t a poet,” said Ichabod. “I shouldn’t like to feel so.”
“You never will, Ichabod,” said his sister. “You are not gifted with the poetic temperament.”
“No more I am. I never could make a rhyme, to save my life. The first line comes sort of easy, but it’s the second that is the sticker.”
“Strange what differences are found in the same family, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with a calm superiority. “You see how different Ichabod and I are.”
“Very true, Miss Jones,” said Walter; though, to tell the truth, he preferred the illiterate and prosaic Ichabod, with his absence of pretension, to his “gifted” sister.
“Have you provoked the muse lately, Mr. Howard?” she asked.
“No, Miss Jones. I find school teaching unfavorable to poetry. If I should undertake to write verses after I get home from school, my mind would certainly stray away to fractions, or the boundaries of States, or something equally prosaic.”
“That is a pity. You should try to cultivate and develop your powers. Perhaps the editor of this paper would insert some of your verses.”
“I don’t think I shall offer any. I must wait till I get more leisure. Besides, I am afraid I could not reach the high standard which the paper has attained since you became a contributor.”
“You are a sad flatterer, Mr. Howard,” said the delighted Melinda.
“I assure you, Miss Jones, that I could not write anything like the lines on a ‘dying leaf.’”
“Oh, I am sure you could, Mr. Howard. You are too modest. Those lines you once read me were so sweet.”
“Now it is you that flatters, Miss Jones.”
I am afraid Walter was not quite justifiable in so ministering to the vanity of Miss Jones, since, of course, he was not sincere. He perhaps thought it required by politeness, but it is desirable to be as sincere as possible, of course avoiding rudeness.
Nine weeks of the school term had passed, and two more would bring a vacation of a month. Nothing had been said to Walter about his teaching the following term, but he presumed it would be offered him, since his administration had been an undoubted success. In another way, however, he had not yet succeeded. He had not been able to learn anything more of the Great Metropolitan Mining Company, and this, as our readers know, was the great object of his present visit to Portville. He was thinking over this, and wondering what course it was best for him to take, when Edward Atkins, one of his scholars, brought him a letter from the post office.
“I was passing by, Mr. Howard,” he said, “and I thought I would bring you this letter.”
“Thank you, Edward. You are very kind.”
He opened it hastily, for he saw by the postmark and the handwriting, that it was from Mr. Shaw, his guardian.
“Dear Walter,” (it commenced):--“I am sorry you have not yet been able to learn anything more definite about the affairs of the Mining Company, as it would guide us in a decision which we shall soon be compelled to make. I am in receipt of another letter from Mr. Wall, offering three thousand dollars, or three dollars per share, for your interest in the mine. He says that it will be necessary to decide at once, or the offer will be withdrawn. Now my impression is that the last clause is only meant to force us to a decision that may be prejudicial to our interests. On the other hand, three thousand dollars, although far less than the sum your father invested, are not lightly to be rejected. With economy it would be more than enough to carry you through college, thus putting you in a way to earn an honorable living. Still, it is not to be lightly accepted. We do not want to be cheated by a designing man. I am not sure whether it would not be a good idea for you to visit the mines yourself, and form your own opinion from what you see. You might, at any rate, report to me, and between us we would come to some decision. I understand that you will have a vacation soon. Suppose you devote that time to a journey to the mines, saying nothing, of course, in Portville, of your design.
“Let me know your decision in the matter as soon as possible. I will meanwhile write to Mr. Wall, postponing our decision, but promising to make one speedily.
“Truly your friend,
“Clement Shaw.”
Walter had scarcely finished reading this letter, when General Wall was ushered into his room.