he first
fruits of his zeal and strength. After that came his article on current
poetry, written (unsigned) for a leading imitation literary weekly. The
preparation of this involved a careful perusal of at least fifty
journals, both American and foreign, and I blush to say it brought him
only fifteen dollars a week. He wrote a weekly "New York Letter" for a
Chicago paper of bookish tendencies, in which he told with a flavour of
intimacy the goings on of literary men in Manhattan whom he never had
time or opportunity to meet. This article was paid for at space rates,
which are less in Chicago than in New York. On this count he averaged
about six dollars a week.

That brings us up to seventy-one dollars, and also pretty close to the
limit of our friend's endurance. The additional ten dollars or so needed
for the stability of the Stockton exchequer he earned in various ways.
Neighbours in New Utrecht would hear his weary typewriter clacking far
into the night. He wrote short stories, of only fair merit; and he wrote
"Sunday stories," which is the lowest depth to which a self-respecting
lover of literature can fall. Once in a while he gave a lecture on
poetry, but he was a shy man, and he never was asked to lecture twice in
the same place. By almost incredible exertions of courage and obstinacy
he wrote a novel, which was published, and sold 2,580 copies the first
year. His royalties on this amounted to $348.30--not one-third as much,
he reflected sadly, as Irvin Cobb would receive for a single short
story. He even did a little private tutoring at his home, giving the
sons of some of his friends lessons in English literature.

It is to be seen that Mr. Stockton's relatives, back in Indiana, were
wrong when they wrote to him admiringly--as they did twice a
year--asking for loans, and praising the bold and debonair life of a man
of letters in the great city. They did not know that for ten years Mr.
Stockton had refused the offers of his friends to put him up for
membership at the literary club to which his fancy turned so fondly and
so often. He could not afford it. When friends from out of town called
on him, he took them to Peck's for a French table d'hote, with an
apologetic murmur.

But it is not to be thought that Mr. Stockton was unhappy or
discontented. Those who have experienced the excitements of the
existence where one lives from hand to mouth and back to hand again,
with rarely more than fifty cents of loose cha