"
So Edward took "The Old Clock on the Stairs," and read it to him.
The poet's face beamed with delight. "That's beautiful," he said, and
then quickly added: "I mean the language, not the poem."
"Now," he went on, "I'll tell you what we'll do: we'll strike a
bargain. We Yankees are great for bargains, you know. If you will
read me 'The Village Blacksmith' you can sit in that chair there made
out of the wood of the old spreading chestnut-tree, and I'll take you
out and show you where the old shop stood. Is that a bargain?"
Edward assured him it was. He sat in the chair of wood and leather,
and read to the poet several of his own poems in a language in which,
when he wrote them, he never dreamed they would ever be printed. He
was very quiet. Finally he said: "It seems so odd, so very odd, to
hear something you know so well sound so strange."
"It's a great compliment, though, isn't it, sir?" asked the boy.
"Ye-es," said the poet slowly. "Yes, yes," he added quickly. "It is,
my boy, a very great compliment.
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