"I have here some lines to a nightingale, which have been very much praised in our village.

Shall I read them ?" "If you wish," said the editor, by no means cheerfully.
Miss Prune raised her voice, and commenced:-- "O star-eyed Nightingale, How nobly thou dost sail Through the air! No other bird can compare With the tuneful song Which to thee doth belong.
I sit and hear thee sing, While with tireless wing Thou dost fly.
And it makes me feel so sad, It makes me feel so bad, I know not why, And I heave so many sighs, O warbler of the skies!" "Is there much more ?" asked the editor.
"That is the first verse.

There are fifteen more," said Prunella.
"Then I think I shall not have time at present to hear you read it all.

You may leave it, and I will look it over at my leisure." "If it suits you," said Prunella, "how much will it be worth ?" "I don't understand." "How much would you be willing to pay for it ?" "Oh, we never pay for poems," said Mr.Houghton.
"Why not ?" asked Miss Prune, evidently disappointed.
"Our contributors are kind enough to send them gratuitously." "Is that fostering American talent ?" demanded Prunella, indignantly.
"American poetical talent doesn't require fostering, judging from the loads of poems which are sent in to us." "You pay for stories, I presume ?" "Yes, we pay for good, popular stories." "I have one here," said Prunella, untying her manuscript, "which I should like to read to you." "You may read the first paragraph, if you please.

I haven't time to hear more.