About this time, which was somewhere in his thirteenth year, Ben took it into his head that he could write poetry: and actually composed several little pieces. These, after some hesitation, he showed to his brother, who pronounced them _excellent_; and thinking that money might be made by Ben's poetry, pressed him to cultivate his _wonderful talent_, as he called it; and even gave him a couple of subjects to write on. The one, which was to be called the LIGHT-HOUSE TRAGEDY, was to narrate the late shipwreck of a sea captain and his two daughters: and the other was to be a sailor's song on the noted pirate Blackbeard, who had been recently killed on the coast of North Carolina, by Captain Maynard, of a British sloop of war. Ben accordingly fell to work, and after burning out several candles, for his brother could not afford to let him write poetry by daylight, he produced his two poems. His brother extolled them to the skies, and in all haste had them put to the type and struck off; to expedite matters, fast as the sheets could be snatched from the press, all hands were set to work, folding and stitching them ready for market; while nothing was to be heard throughout the office but constant calls on the boys at press--"_more sheets ho! more Light-house tragedy! more Blackbeard!_" But who can tell what Ben felt when he saw his brother and all his journeymen in such a bustle on his account--and when he saw, wherever he cast his eyes, the splendid trophies of his genius scattered on the floor and tables; some in common paper for the multitude; and others in snow-white foolscap, for presents to the GREAT PEOPLE, such as "HIS EXCELLENCY THE GOVERNOR."--"The HON. THE SECRETARY OF STATE."--"The WORSHIPFUL THE MAYOR."--"The ALDERMEN, and GENTLEMEN OF THE COUNCIL."--"The reverend the _clergy_, &c." Ben could never tire of gazing at them; and as he gazed, his heart would leap for joy--"_O you precious little verses_," he would say to himself, "_Ye first warblings of my youthful harp! I'll soon have you abroad, delighting every company, and filling all mouths with my name!_" Accordingly, his _two poems_ being ready, Ben, who had been both poet and printer, with a basket full of each on his arm, set out in high spirits to sell them through the town, which he did by singing out as he went, after, the manner of the London cries-- "Choice Poetry! Choice Po-e-try! Come BUY my choice Po-e-try!" The people of Boston having never heard any such cry as that before, were prodigiously at a loss to know what he was selling. But still Ben went on singing out as before, "Choice Poetry! Choice Poetry! Come, buy my choice Poetry!" I wonder now, said one with a stare, if it is not _poultry_ that that little boy is singing out so stoutly yonder. O no, I guess not, said a second. Well then, cried a third, I vow but it must be _pastry_. At length Ben was called up and interrogated.