Having sold a poem of eighteen lines for $9.00 she almost wept because, as she ingenuously complained, she might just as easily have written twenty lines for $10.00! Then there is the fair Villager who intones Walt Whitman to music of her own composition; that is a bit trying, I grant you.

And the male Villager who frequents spiritualistic seances and communes with dead poets.
One night Emerson presided.

And, after the ghosts had departed, the spiritualistic Villager read some of his own poems.
"And do you know," he declared, enraptured, "everyone thought it was still Emerson who was speaking!" Now for him we may have sympathy.

He is perhaps a faker, but I am inclined to believe that he is that anachronism, a sincere faker.

He is on the level.