age, far less the heart, to send them out again.

MacBean seems to take an interest in my struggles. I often sit in his
room in the rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, smoking and sipping whisky into
the small hours. He is an old hand, who knows the market and frankly
manufactures for it.

"Give me short pieces," he says; "things of three verses that will fill
a blank half-page of a magazine. Let them be sprightly, and, if
possible, have a snapper at the end. Give me that sort of article. I
think I can place it for you."

Then he looked through a lot of my verse: "This is the kind of stuff I
might be able to sell," he said:

A Domestic Tragedy

Clorinda met me on the way
As I came from the train;
Her face was anything but gay,
In fact, suggested pain.
"Oh hubby, hubby dear!" she cried,
"I've awful news to tell. . . ."
"What is it, darling?" I replied;
"Your mother--is she well?"

"Oh no! oh no! it is not that,
It's something else," she wailed,
My heart was beating pit-a-pat,
My ruddy visage paled.
Like lightning flash in heaven's dome
The fear within me woke:
"Don't say," I cried, "our little home
Has all gone up in smoke!"

She shook her head. Oh, swift I clasped
And held her to my breast;
"The children! Tell me quick," I gasped,
"Believe me, it is best."
Then, then she spoke; 'mid sobs I caught
These words of woe divine:
"It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought
_A new hat just like mine._"

At present I am living on bread and milk. By doing this I can rub along
for another ten days. The thought pleases me. As long as I have a
crust I am master of my destiny. Some day, when I am rich and famous, I
shall look back on all this with regret. Yet I think I shall always
remain a Bohemian. I hate regularity. The clock was never made for me.
I want to eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am weary, drink--well,
any old time.

I prefer to be alone. Company is a constraint on my spirit. I never
make an engagement if I can avoid it. To do so is to put a mortgage on
my future. I like to be able to rise in the morning with the thought
that the hours before me are all mine, to spend in my own way--to work,
to dream, to watch the unfolding drama of life.

Here is another of my ballads. It is longer than most, and gave me more
trouble, though none the better for that.