.

the poorhouse was not an imposing structure, but it could boast of antiquity, as it had been built long, long ago for the purpose for which it was now used.

it was not difficult for johanson to locate the poorhouse poet. his room, like the other two, opened directly on the vestibule. on his own door he had been allowed to paint his name and publish his chosen occupation:—

"i take my bag,

my legs my nag,

and never fail

to fetch the mail."

so ran the poor rhymes, yet the mad poet had not given himself his full meed of praise. no storm was too wild, no cold too severe, no snow too deep for the faithful mail-carrier to make his rounds. rather[pg 111] than give up the leathern bag entrusted to him to teasing country boys or desperate highwayman, he would have died in its defence.

the principle of growth had exerted its power eccentrically with the poorhouse poet. his legs and neck were elongated out of all proportion to the rest of his body. his small, pale face was raised unnaturally high in the air, as if he had suffered decapitation and his head had been posted as an assurance that offended law had been avenged. unconscious of his own peculiarities, the persistent rhymer went about pleased with himself and all the world. now he was particularly happy, for he considered himself a kind of presiding officer at the poorhouse, and as such the proper person to show the premises to curious strangers, or to formally install new inmates. on the entrance of johanson with the pastor's permit, the poet immediately took the odd-looking pauper in hand, to make him at home in the establishment.

he knocked at the small room opposite the main entrance, and a shrill voice having shouted, "come in!" the visitors opened the door.

"i bring a new-comer,

our guest for the summer!

he's johanson, he;

gull hansdotter, she."[pg 112]

so presented, johanson bowed to the little old woman, who stood up beside the chair in which she had been sitting, and deigned to bend her knees for a courtesy just sufficiently to bring her short skirts possibly one inch nearer the floor. her stiff demeanour, however, changed suddenly as she darted to a corner and produced a bit of rag carpet, on which she requested the visitors to stand, as her room had been freshly scoured for sunday.

"scour sunday,

scour monday,

scour every day,

that's her way,"

said the poet, retiring precipitately with his companion. the poet had described the absorbing pursuit of his fellow-lodger. chairs, table, and floor in that little room were subject to such rasping purifications, that if there had ever been paint on any of them, it was a thing of the far past, while an ashy whiteness and a general smell of dampness were the abiding peculiarities of the apartment. the eyes of the owner had become possessed of a microscopic power of discovering the minutest speck that might have been envied by any scientific observer of insect life.[pg 113]

the poet next threw open the door of the room opposite his own, as he said to his companion,—

"here is your place—

no want of space;

according to diet,

not always so quiet."

these were the quarters johanson was to share with the broad-chested man in a big chair, who sat with a stout stick beside him, as if ready at any moment to meet the attack of a roving marauder.

"this is our cellar-master,

who lived faster and faster,

till here with us he had to be.—

it's johanson who comes with me;

he'll share your room, at least to-night,

and longer if you treat him right."

there was only an inhospitable grunt from the gouty, red-faced man whose biography had been more justly than politely abridged for the new-comer.

johanson had no luggage to deposit. he thanked his conductor for the trouble he had taken, and then seated himself on a wooden chair on his side of the room, and had evidently no further need of his guide, who promptly disappeared.

johanson seemed gazing out of the window, but was really seeing nothing, while quite lost in his[pg 114] own thoughts, and altogether forgetful of his companion.

there was a pounding on the floor, followed by a rumbling sound, as of some one preparing to speak, and then the other occupant of the room said roughly: "here, you! do you see that crack across the middle of the floor, with three big, dark knots in the middle on each side of it? that's my landmark. you come over it, and there'll be mischief!"

"i shall take great pleasure in attending to your wishes. it is not likely that i shall visit you often," said johanson, rising and bowing with much politeness, and then promptly resuming his seat.

the next step of the new lodger was to take a small, carefully-covered book from his pocket. the gilt edges, dulled by time, were, however, observed by the watchful spectator, a prisoner in his chair. the fine print and the divided verses were evident to his keen eyes, that twinkled in their red frames with an uncanny light. "no hypocrisy here! it don't take. put up that book, or i'll throw my friend here at you. i never miss, so look out!" he touched the club-like stick beside him.

johanson quickly put his hand in his breast-pocket and took out a small revolver. "here is my friend,"[pg 115] he said. "i never miss with this in my hand!" he spoke coolly, but his eyes were fearless and determined. "you let me alone, and i'll let you alone. i want to live peaceably. i shall do what i please on my side of the room, and i want no meddling from you."

the cellar-master understood at once that he had here a person not to be trifled with, and from that day there was no difficulty between them.

the revolver may or may not have been loaded, but the sight of it had been enough for the cellar-master, as for many a "rough" before.

as to the little woman who had given johanson so ungracious a reception on his first appearance in her room, he had evidently taken an aversion to her society. when she came into his duplicated quarters, he was always looking out into the street, or so occupied that she had a better view of his back than of his face. he never named her, nor was she ever mentioned in the establishment by her lawful cognomen, but was always spoken of as "she," representing alone, as she did, her own sex in the poorhouse.

it seemed to her a wonder that with all her claims to respectability she had ever found her way to her present home. the walls of her room were decorated[pg 116] with silhouettes of this or that grand personage in whose service she had enjoyed the honour of being in days of yore. such mementoes failing her, there were coveted seals to letters, or paper headings cut out and duly pointed at the edges, to shine forth from red backgrounds. a daguerreotype of herself, in all the buxom freshness of youth and the "bravery" of a gaily-adorned peasant costume, was always to be seen standing on her bureau half open, like the book of an absent-minded scholar disturbed in his researches. her pretensions imposed not a little upon the cellar-master, who treated her with a certain respect; but the poet was unmindful of her social claims, and perhaps took a pleasure in showing his independence of her rule. rule it was, for she condescended to cook for "those poor men folks," as she called them.

not that her cooking was ever of an elaborate order—coffee and porridge being the only dainties on which she was permitted to display her full powers. warming up and making over other dishes kindly sent in by benevolent neighbours she did to perfection, and showed in this matter an ingenuity most remarkable. when, however, she took in the meals she had prepared for the various recipients, it was[pg 117] with a studied ungraciousness, abated only for the cellar-master, who, as she said, had a respectable title of his own, and was suitable company for her.

johanson, who had come to his present abode empty-handed, provided himself by degrees with needful articles of clothing of the simplest sort, as well as necessities for the toilet and the writing-table. the pen was much in his hand. it was used occasionally for a letter to the nearest large city, and such a missive was generally followed by a parcel, which was stowed away at once in the capacious chest appointed for his use.

the cellar-master was sure that it was on sheets ruled like music-paper that johanson was almost constantly writing, though they were locked up in his chest almost before they were fairly dry. he did not seem to be a reader, but the objectionable little book with the gilt edges came out at a regular hour each day, and for five minutes at least had his full attention, without offensive interruption.

on the whole, the poorhouse had become for johanson a peaceful and in a measure a comfortable home.