ust where to place his underpinning to make it support
my magnificent prose. The Byron and Shakespeare-built letters were also
good. Scott rumbled a little too hard; his stride was too firm to answer
the purpose, except for short fillers now and then. All the big licks
were put in with Byron and Burns, and Morris occasionally as a
substitute. Those fellows warmed up to the subject in a way that pleased
me; they took right hold of a girl with as little timidity as a dancing
professor and poured their song into her inclining ear, happy in the
understanding that they were delivering the goods she wanted. Early in
the business I had come to the conclusion that it was useless to fool
with the cold-blooded wooers if results were wanted. Shakespeare, of
course, was a leader, but his best stuff was getting to be so common in
the language I found it impossible to quote him and maintain an air of
dignified originality, so as to make it appear that the gems fell
naturally by suggestion from Jim's well-stocked poem reservoir. If the
maiden should get the idea that the prose was written around the poetry
the scenic effect would be destroyed. The great thing was to make a hit
by getting the sincerity in the prose boiled down so thick that the
following poetry would seem to be only a breath of steam arising from
the solid mass of seething sentiment. It was assumed that the lady would
know who the poet was, but give Jim credit for selecting the verses the
same as if he had written them; she would not doubt him on the prose,
for occasionally I brought that down to the style of a plain business
letter to destroy suspicion.

The more I read those letters over at the hospital, the prouder I
became. My calm judgment was that they were well worth the price and any
woman might be proud to have them sent to her. Perhaps I would copy them
off again some time when I needed help that way myself; at any rate, I
was so proud of them I decided I would always keep them for their
literary value.

When Hygeia entered, I was deeply interested in this documentary mass. I
had forgotten about my thirst, imbibing from this fount of poetic
inspiration. She asked me what it was that pleased me so much, but I
dodged that question politely.

Soon I began to regret my evasive answer. When a man gets to be real
proud of his work of art, he wants somebody to admire it with him and
tell him how nice it is. I had believed I should be close-mouthed about
those let