I never know what I am going to write when I sit down.

And presently the rhymes begin pounding in my brain,--it seems as if there were a hundred couples of them, paired like so many dancers,--and then these rhymes seem to take possession of me, like a surprise party, and bring in all sorts of beautiful thoughts, and I write and write, and the verses run measuring themselves out like"-- "Ribbins,--any narrer blue ribbins, Mr.Hopkins?
Five eighths of a yard, if you please, Mr.Hopkins.

How's your folks ?" Then, in a lower tone, "Those last verses of yours in the Bannernoracle were sweet pooty." Gifted Hopkins meted out the five eighths of blue ribbon by the aid of certain brass nails on the counter.

He gave good measure, not prodigal, for he was loyal to his employer, but putting a very moderate strain on the ribbon, and letting the thumb-nail slide with a contempt of infinitesimals which betokened a large soul in its genial mood.
The young lady departed, after casting upon him one of those bewitching glances which the young poet--let us rather say the poet, without making odious distinctions--is in the confirmed habit of receiving from dear woman.
Mr.Gifted Hopkins resumed: "I do not know where this talent, as my friends call it, of mine, comes from.

My father used to carry a chain for a surveyor sometimes, and there is a ten-foot pole in the house he used to measure land with.