On the eastward plains of that state known locally as Wisconsin, between the magnific waters of the seas, or lakes to use the common language of the land, known in that county only as great, and the sweeping plains of the regal Midwest, there sat nestled in a seemingly foreordained corner the town that would come to be known as Appleton. For this time of year, when Winter had finally relinquished it's icy grasp for the more feminine aspects of sweet Spring's warmer season, the weather, never predictable in that region, was nevertheless unseasonably warm. Night had fallen on the fair college town, and all around the amber orbs of the residential household lighting threatened to overpower even its more celestial counterparts. The buzzing of lakeflies, so common throughout the day, had given way to the gentle hum of the electric fan and the tranquil background noises of a happy and prosperous community. Looking out from one of the windows of stately Colman Hall (for such was one of the residences on that college named), provided the burnt-sequoia curtains were hung equidistant from the meridian of the room's particular looking-glass, one could see the stark pillars of the next hall, Brokaw, and it's neighbor, the more humble Thai food restaurant that managed to control the landscape with a dignity perhaps surpassing it's larger brother. At this time there was but one resident in that dorm room from which we have been looking, a simple country man of near a score years of age, contemplating nothing more than an ill-considered enmity towards one of his nation's early writers. Unlike that writer, he was writing from America, and not the distant hotels of France.

"Ah! Cooper," cried the teen, "thou knowest but little of the pleasure of writing succinctly and without such tedious elaboration. I have known thee to spend a minute delineating that which a more common man would have dispatched in a second with naught but a monosyllabic reply."

The departed spirit of that illustrious author took form as the head of the youth was prepared to drop in resignation. Understandably perplexed by this sudden change in affairs, the youth instead fixed the wraith with eyes that showed both fear and dignity. Instantly upon seeing the ghost both developed an enmity for each other that went beyond words.

"Put an ind, lad, to think afore you talk," opined the author. "An't mys work a spectarkular feat, as well as a popular one? Wasn't the romance made for misedukarted nobles sarch as meself?"

"Nay, my dead friend," replied the distraught boy, with a fire in his eyes that betrayed both boredom and exhaustion, owing perhaps to the pompous affections of an English education. Several women fainted somewhere, for some reason. "Thy gives thyself far too much credit. Did not the noble Twain take a merry swing at thee in his essay, hitting many of your natural foibles? It would be harsh of me indeed to discredit your accomplishment entirely, yet perhaps you too judge too quickly the rightness of your work."

The author flashed one of his trademark smiles with all the coolness esteemed his rank. "Thart'd be one bad day, on which old Cooper didno get the last ward. An't my work dense, and voluminous?" A silent laugh followed, and a friendly shine was seen in the hardened scribe's merry eyes.

The youth, however, growing tired of this game, had already traversed his way to the portal and left the room, leaving the dead genius in a more acceptable state.