It occupied a gratifying amount of space, and was introduced by a flattering biographical sketch of the author--the _author_!--the material for which the friendly editor had artfully drawn from me during that happy interview.

And my name, as I had prophesied, was at the bottom! When the excitement in the house had subsided, my father took all the change out of the cash drawer and went to buy up the "Herald." He did not count the pennies.

He just bought "Heralds," all he could lay his hands on, and distributed them gratis to all our friends, relatives, and acquaintances; to all who could read, and to some who could not.
For weeks he carried a clipping from the "Herald" in his breast pocket, and few were the occasions when he did not manage to introduce it into the conversation.

He treasured that clipping as for years he had treasured the letters I wrote him from Polotzk.
Although my father bought up most of the issue containing my poem, a few hundred copies were left to circulate among the general public, enough to spread the flame of my patriotic ardor and to enkindle a thousand sluggish hearts.

Really, there was something more solemn than vanity in my satisfaction.