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Another letter, being the third in six months, had reached the Dovecot, addressed, not to Miss Ailie, but to Miss Kitty. Miss Kitty had been dead fully six years, and Archie Piatt, the post, swore that this was the eighteenth, if not the nineteenth, letter he had delivered to her name since that time.
But inwardly it was altogether different with me. Inwardly I was a poet, with no wish to be anything else, unless in a moment of careless affluence I might so far forget myself as to be a novelist. I was, with my friend J. J. Piatt, the half-author of a little volume of very unknown verse, and Mr. Lowell had lately accepted and had begun to print in the Atlantic Monthly five or six poems of mine.
I can't say I know much about it at present, as I was sent to school in the old country, when I was a very little chap under the charge of an uncle, with whom I spent my holidays, and who looked after me all the time I was in England; but he died some months ago, and as my father could not send money to pay for my schooling, I was shipped off to return home, and Mr Piatt, the owner of the Cloof Farm, where we were staying, was good enough to ask your friend Mr Hendricks to let us accompany him as far as we were going, as he said that he expected to pass close to my father's house."
By no chance could they find me in more equivocal company. In addition to ourselves bad enough, from the Kentucky point of view Theodore Tilton, Donn Piatt and David A. Wells were in the room. When the Kentuckians crossed the threshold and were presented seriatim the face of each was a study.
By no chance could they find me in more equivocal company. In addition to ourselves bad enough, from the Kentucky point of view Theodore Tilton, Donn Piatt and David A. Wells were in the room. When the Kentuckians crossed the threshold and were presented seriatim the face of each was a study.
Where Nature has sent genius, she has a right to expect that it shall be treated with a certain elegance of hospitality. The brief, concluding portion of the review is of little value and is omitted here. Piatt died several years ago. He was a great friend of William Dean Howells, and once published a volume of poems in collaboration with him.
John Bigelow, who had retired from the New York Evening Post, was Minister to France. Halstead was coming on, but, except as a correspondent, Whitelaw Reid had not "arrived." The like was true of "Joe" McCullagh, who, in the same character, divided the newspaper reading attention of the country with George Alfred Townsend and Donn Piatt.
It was late at night before Bracewell and Hector came back, accompanied by Mr Piatt, the overseer from the head station, and another man to take the place of the murdered hut-keeper. As it was now too late to think of proceeding on our journey that night, we turned our horses into a spare paddock, where they could find grass enough to satisfy their hunger until the morning.
It was nuts to the Washington Correspondents story writers and satirists who were there to make the most out of an occasion in which the bizarre was much in excess of the conventional with George Alfred Townsend and Donn Piatt to set the pace. Hyde had come from St. Louis to keep especial tab on Grosvenor. Though rival editors facing our way, they had not been admitted to the Quadrilateral.
On getting near to Piatt we saw two more natives on the ground, the one a youth badly wounded, the other a gin, old and wrinkled, apparently the mother of the lad.
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