wanted, and he took her riding in his new Runabout every Evening.

Consequently, she was very Miserable, thinking of the Jewel she had
lost.

MORAL: _If the Woman thinks he's All Right, you keep on your own Side of
the Fence._

_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ BOHEMIAN _WHO_ HAD HARD LUCK

Once upon a Time there was a Brilliant but Unappreciated Chap who was
such a Thorough Bohemian that Strangers usually mistook him for a Tramp.

Would he brush his Clothes? Not he. When he wore a Collar he was Ashamed
of himself. He had Pipe-Ashes on his Coat and Vest. He seldom Combed his
Hair, and never Shaved.

Every Evening he ate an Imitation Dinner, at a forty-cent Table d'Hote,
with a Bottle of Writing Fluid thrown in. He had formed a little Salon
of Geniuses, who also were out of Work, and they loved to Loll around
on their Shoulder-Blades and Laugh Bitterly at the World.

The main Bohemian was an Author. After being Turned Down by numerous
Publishers, he had decided to write for Posterity. Posterity hadn't
heard anything about it, and couldn't get out an Injunction.

He knew his Works were good, because all the Free and Untrammeled Souls
in the Spaghetti Joint told him so. He would read them a Little Thing of
his Own about Wandering in the Fields with Lesbia, and then he would
turn to a Friend, whose Face was all covered with Human Ivy, and ask
him, point blank: "Is it, or is it not, Better than the Dooley Stuff?"

[Illustration: THOROUGH BOHEMIAN]

"There is no Comparison," would be the Reply, coming through the
Foliage.

Wandering in the Fields with Lesbia! Lesbia would have done Well. If he
had Wandered in the Fields at any Time he would have been Pinched on
Suspicion that he was out for Turnips.

The sure-enough Bohemian was a Scathing Critic. If Brander Matthews only
knew some of the Things said about him, there would be Tear Marks on his
Pillow. And Howells, too. Bah! My, but he was Caustic.

The way he burned up Magazine Writers, it's a Wonder they didn't get
after him for Arson.

One day, while standing on the Front Stoop at his Boarding House, trying
to think of some one who would submit to a Touch, a Flower Pot fell from
a Window Ledge above him, and hit him on the Head. He was put into an
Ambulance and taken to a Hospital, where the Surgeons clipped his Hair
short, in order to take Three Stitches. While he was still Unconscious,
and therefore unable to Resist, they Scrubbed him with Castile Soap,
gave