Miss Melinda Athanasia Jones devoted herself during the day to the composition of a poem to be read to the guests whom she expected in the evening. She wanted to produce a good impression upon them. Her vocation, so she thought, was that of an authoress. She had sent several poems to the Atlantic Monthly and Harper’s Magazine at various times, but with singular unanimity both periodicals had “respectfully declined” them all. Melinda understood the reason well enough.

“It is because I am a Western literati,” she exclaimed to her brother, with a lofty contempt for grammar. “If I were a Boston or New York literati, they would be glad to get my productions.”

“I reckon you’re right, Melindy,” said her brother Ichabod. “Why don’t you have your perductions, as you call ’em, mailed in Boston or New York? You could send ’em to somebody there.”

“Thank you, I wouldn’t stoop to the subterfuge,” said Melinda, reciting melodramatically:

“Good!” said her brother. “When did you make up them verses?”

“They are not mine,” confessed Melinda. “They are by Byron.”

“Are they, now? He was a smart feller, wasn’t he?”

“He was an inspired poet, Ichabod; but you wouldn’t understand him. He soars into the realms of the evanescent.”

“Does he? Then I guess I couldn’t. I ain’t much on soarin’.”

At half-past seven o’clock a knock was heard at the door of Melinda’s boudoir.

“Ichabod, open the door,” she said.

Her brother obeyed the command. As Barclay and Walter entered the room, they beheld their fair hostess seated at the center table, with a volume of poems resting on her lap, while one hand supported her forehead, the elbow resting on the table. She had practiced this attitude during the afternoon before a looking-glass, and considered it effective.

She lifted her eyes slowly, appearing wrapt in meditation.

“Pardon my pensive preoccupation,” she said, rising and greeting her guests. “I was communing with Milton. Do you often commune with him, Mr. Barclay?”

“I haven’t had much time for that lately, Miss Jones. My friend here is more poetical than I am.”

“Indeed, Mr. Howard, I am glad to hear that. You and me will be congenial.”

“You flatter me, Miss Jones,” said Walter, looking sober, but wanting to laugh.

“Do you ever provoke the muse, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda, who probably meant invoke.

“Sometimes,” said Walter. “I hear you are an authoress.”

“A little of one,” said Melinda, modestly.

“I hope you will favor us by reading something of your own.”

“Indeed, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with affected bashfulness, “I should be afraid to submit my careless productions to gentlemen of such literary taste. I did indeed throw off a few rhymes to-day, but----”

“We shall be glad to hear them, Miss Jones. Perhaps, after you have read them, my friend, Mr. Howard, will read something.”

“Oh, that will be delightful! In that case I cannot refuse. Ichabod, will you bring me that portfolio from the desk?”

Her brother, whom Melinda was in the habit of ordering around, complied with his sister’s request.

Melinda drew out a sheet of note paper and unfolded it.

“I hope, Mr. Howard, you will not be severe upon my verses. They were written this afternoon, in a fit of inspiration. You will see that they reveal my too susceptible soul. I am subject to fits----”

“Why, Melinda,” broke in her brother, “you never told me you had fits?”

“To fits of lonely contemplation,” continued Melinda, looking severely at her brother, “and it was in one of these that I penned the following stanzas.”

Melinda cleared her throat, and read as follows, in an impressive voice:

“It takes Melinda to string off the rhymes,” said Ichabod, who took his sister at her own valuation, and firmly believed her to be a genius. “She writes ’em just as easy!”

“Do you share her talent, Mr. Jones?” asked Walter, gravely.

“Me? I couldn’t write poetry if you was to pay me ten dollars a line. I shouldn’t want to, either, if I’d got to feel as Melinda says she does in them verses she just read.”

“It is the penalty of a too-sensitive soul. Surely you have had such feelings, Mr. Howard. I am afraid you were not favorably impressed by my poor verses.”

This she said, anxious to draw out expressions of admiration.

“The lines are very smooth, Miss Jones,” said Walter, “but I cannot say I ever have quite such feelings. I am of a cheerful temperament, and my muse would not soar to such lofty heights as yours.”

“I envy you, Mr. Howard,” said Melinda, with a sigh. “I wish my muse were not so thoughtful and contemplative. Have you not some poem you could read us? Mr. Barclay says you are a poet.”

“I am afraid Mr. Barclay has spoken without authority.”

“Come, Mr. Howard, you must read Miss Jones the verses you wrote this afternoon.”

“What! Were you, too, provoking the muse, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda, with eager interest.

“I am afraid I was,” said Walter, gravely, choosing to understand the young lady’s words literally.

In fact he had written a few verses, at Mr. Barclay’s suggestion, “for the fun of it,” in order to contribute his quota to the feast of reason expected in the evening.

“But I hope you will excuse my reading it,” he added, with affected bashfulness.

“Indeed I will not. Mr. Barclay, help me to persuade Mr. Howard.”

Walter finally yielded, as he intended to do all the while, but on condition that Mr. Barclay would read the poem. This being accepted, Barclay read, with appropriate emphasis, the following verses, which were modeled after a song found in a small collection of minstrel verses in Walter’s possession:

“How sweet!” murmured Melinda. “Indeed you are a true poet, Mr. Howard.”

“Thank you,” said Walter, who had hard work not to laugh, knowing himself what ridiculous rubbish his verses were.

“By Jove! that’s my style of poetry,” said Mr. Jones, energetically. “I like that better than yours, Melindy.”

“Oh, it don’t compare with your sister’s, Mr. Jones,” said Walter, modestly. “It doesn’t soar to such lofty heights.”

“Now, Mr. Howard, I think it excellent,” said Miss Jones, who was delighted at the praise of her own production. “I cannot expect all to be so contemplative as I am. My muse loves to dwell alone in primeval solitude. Yours seeks the woodland glade.”

“You have expressed the difference admirably, Miss Jones,” said Barclay, gravely. “Mr. Jones and myself unluckily cannot soar with you and Mr. Howard. We can only look on in silent admiration.”

“Do you often indite verses, Mr. Howard?” asked Melinda. “I hope you will show me all your productions.”

“I seldom write, Miss Jones. Whenever I do, I shall be sure to ask your critical opinion of my verses.”

But it is unnecessary to detail the rest of the conversation. Later in the evening some nuts, apples and raisins were passed around, to which Melinda did full justice, notwithstanding her unsatisfied longings and the solitude of her soul.