st such
bohemians--six struggling poets, each with an imagination and a love of
good wine and good dinners and good times that left them continually in
a state of bankruptcy! As they really never had any money--none that
ever lasted for more than two days and two nights at the utmost, their
good landlord seldom saw a sou in return for his hospitable roof, which
had sheltered these six great minds who wrote of the moon, and of fate,
and fortune, and love.

For days they would dream and starve and write. Then followed an auction
sale of the total collection of verses, hawked about anywhere and
everywhere among the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown fruit.
Having sold it, literally by the yard, they would all saunter up the
"Boul' Miche," and forget their past misery, in feasting, to their
hearts' content, on the good things of life. On days like these, you
would see them passing, their black-brimmed hats adjusted jauntily over
their poetic locks--their eyes beaming with that exquisite sense of
feeling suddenly rich, that those who live for art's sake know! The
keenest of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and to these six poetic,
impractical Bohemians, thus suddenly raised from the slough of despond
to a state where they no longer trod with mortals--their cup of
happiness was full and spilling over. They must not only have a good
time, but so must every one around them. With their great riches, they
would make the world gay as long as it lasted, for when it was over they
knew how sad life would be. For a while--then they would scratch
away--and have another auction!

[Illustration: DAYLIGHT]

Unlike another good fellow, a painter whom I once knew, who periodically
found himself without a sou, and who would take himself, in despair, to
his lodgings, make his will, leaving most of his immortal works to his
English aunt, go to bed, and calmly await death! In a fortunate space of
time his friends, who had been hunting for him all over the Quarter,
would find him at last and rescue him from his chosen tomb; or his good
aunt, fearing he was ill, would send a draft! Then life would, to this
impractical philosopher, again become worth living. He would dispatch a
"petit bleu" to Marcelle; and the two would meet at the Cafe Cluny, and
dine at La Perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, and a bottle of Haut
Barsac--the bottle all cobwebs and cradled in its basket--the garcon, as
he poured its golden contents, holding his brea