ork at last, A W; the loafing and inviting of my soul is
past, my soul has responded to my invitation. You remember Crisodd's
Devilgrass Symphony? A horrible misconception if ever there was one, a
personal insult to anyone who ever saw the Grass; a dull, unintentional
joke; bad Schoenberg--if that isnt a tautology--combined with faint
memories of the most vulgar Wagner--if that isnt another
tautology--threaded together on _Mighty Like a Rose_ and _Alexander's
Ragtime Band_. But what am I saying, A W, to you who are so free from
the virus of culture? What the hell interest have you in Crisodd's
symphony or my symphony or anybody's symphony, except the polyphony of
profits?"

"I hope no one thinks I'm a narrowminded man, Joe," I reproved him. "I
venture to say I have as much interest in Art as the next person. Ive
done a bit of writing myself, you know, and literature--"

"Oh sure. I didnt mean to hurt your feelings."

"You did not. But while I believe Music is a fine thing in its place, I
came to discuss a different subject."

"If you mean taking Joe back to Europe with you, youre out of luck, Mr
Weener," put in Florence placidly. "He's almost finished the first
movement and we'll never leave the Grass till it's all done."

"You mistake me, Mrs Thario. I have a proposition for your husband, but
far from taking him away from the Grass, it will bring him closer to
it."

"Impossible," exclaimed Joe. "I am the Grass and the Grass is me; in
mystical union we have become a single entity. I speak with its voice
and in the great cadences which come from its heart you can hear
Thario's first, transfigured and magnified a hundred thousand times."

I was sorry to note his speech, always so simple and unaffected in
contrast to his letters, was infected with an unbecoming pomposity.
Looking at him closely I saw he had lost weight. His flesh had shrunk
closer to his big frame and the lines of his skull stood out sharply in
his cheek and jaw. There was the faintest touch of gray in his hair and
his fingers played nervously with the ragged and illadvised beard on his
chin. He hardly looked the man who had evaded serious work in order to
encourage a silly obsession, comfortably supported all the while by a
sizable remittance from his father.

I outlined to them my plans for gathering samples of the weed. Florence
tucked her stillthreaded needle between her teeth and inspected the
current pair of socks critically. Joe walked over