ntry could see it as it is.

So the traveller dipped his quill in ink once more and started writing
his book. It is not yet known how successful he was.

Travellers make terrible errors, and yet at times they bring back
fragments of truth that the natives of the land have left unheeded
scattered on the soil of the countryside. Sometimes their fragments
prove to be useless and without value, for there are travellers and
travellers, and some will be as stupid and as blind as the rest are
clever. If this book turns out to be written by one of the stupid
travellers--try to be generous, you Villagers--but then the Village is
always generous!

The studio life of Greenwich is really and truly as primitive, as
picturesque, as poverty-stricken and as gaily adventurous as the
story-tellers say. People really do live in big, quaint, bare rooms
with scarcely enough to buy the necessaries of life; and they are
undoubtedly gay in the doing of it. There is a sort of _camaraderie_
among the "Bohemians" of the world below Fourteenth Street which the
more restricted uptowners find it hard to believe in. It is difficult
for those uptowners to understand a condition of mind which makes it
possible for a number of ambitious young people in a studio building
to go fireless and supperless one day and feast gloriously the next;
to share their rare windfalls without thought of obligation on any
side; to burn candles instead of kerosene in order to dine at
"Polly's"; to borrow each other's last pennies for books or pictures
or drawing materials, knowing that they will all go without butter or
milk for tomorrow's breakfast.

If one is hard up, one expects to be offered a share in someone's good
fortune; if one has had luck oneself, one expects, as a matter of
course, to share it. Such is the code of the studios.

Anabel, for example, is sitting up typing her newest poem at 1
A.M. when a knock comes on the studio door. She opens it to
confront the man who lives on the top floor and whom she has never
met. She hasn't the least idea what his name is. He carries a tea
caddy, a teapot and a teacup.

"Sorry," he explains casually, "but I saw your light, and I thought
you'd let me use your gas stove to make some tea. Mine is out of
commission. Just go ahead with your work, while I fuss about. Maybe
you'd take a cup when it's ready?"

Anabel does, and he retires, cheerfully unconscious of anything
unconventional in the episode.

"Jimmy," calls