| OCR Text |
Show And he thumped across the dark wooden floor of the rooms where Pot and bit young wlft lived happily for a brief tlmt In thtlr tragic years together, to-gether, and peered down Into the cellar. Then he lit a candle and went down tht narrow steps to a dark, musty room crowded with broken plecet of glass and papers and an old trunk. . Tht fortune might be un- I tr tht trunk be couldn't tell Just then. But there la no secret about the Pot house. It hat stood at a literary shrint for many years. No matter how bidden from view, how broken-down broken-down In appearance, persons from alt over the world have come to visit It Artiste have painted Ita little barren backyard, where Virginia Poe and her mother used to sit under the branches of a large pear tretv . Writers hare ttepped qutaly across Its threshold and thoughfully bandied the old Iron latch on the front door. Maetlnge have been held In Its tiny rooms and ! speeches given on the doorstep. Philadelphia Phil-adelphia Public Ledger. . Literary Shrine Made " " Prey of " Renovator $"' The carpenters are busy there these' days. - They are tearing up floors and putting them down again. They are fitting new window sashes and fastening fasten-ing bright and shining locks to doors. They are renovating a little six-room house at Seventh and Braudywine streets, Philadelphia, and they do not know a great American poet once lived there. , ' - - - "Oh, It was years ago. yoq say," remarked re-marked a workiuuu, accepting that as explanation of why Edgar Allan 1'oe lived In such a modest dwelling, a place with no reminders of past glory. Ht had not lived In this country long and Dante was the only poet he knew. "A poet, waa her asked the foreman, fore-man, pankfhg In the business of scraping scrap-ing a door. " "They aay there Is a fortune burled In tbt cellar," he added In a, dubious voice. "I never beard about the poet, but tht lady who used to live uere dreamed three ulghta In .succession about that money In the cellar." j!-", |
