ourgeois_."

The best thing that could happen to MacBean would be that. It might
change his point of view. He is so painfully discouraging. I have never
mentioned my ballads to him. He would be sure to throw cold water on
them. And as it draws near to its end the thought of my book grows more
and more dear to me. How I will get it published I know not; but I will.
Then even if it doesn't sell, even if nobody reads it, I will be
content. Out of this brief, perishable Me I will have made something
concrete, something that will preserve my thought within its dusty
covers long after I am dead and dust.

Here is one of my latest:

Poor Peter

Blind Peter Piper used to play
All up and down the city;
I'd often meet him on my way,
And throw a coin for pity.
But all amid his sparkling tones
His ear was quick as any
To catch upon the cobble-stones
The jingle of my penny.

And as upon a day that shone
He piped a merry measure:
"How well you play!" I chanced to say;
Poor Peter glowed with pleasure.
You'd think the words of praise I spoke
Were all the pay he needed;
The artist in the player woke,
The penny lay unheeded.

Now Winter's here; the wind is shrill,
His coat is thin and tattered;
Yet hark! he's playing trill on trill
As if his music mattered.
And somehow though the city looks
Soaked through and through with shadows,
He makes you think of singing brooks
And larks and sunny meadows.

Poor chap! he often starves, they say;
Well, well, I can believe it;
For when you chuck a coin his way
He'll let some street-boy thieve it.
I fear he freezes in the night;
My praise I've long repented,
Yet look! his face is all alight . . .
Blind Peter seems contented.

_A day later_.

On the terrace of the Closerie de Lilas I came on Saxon Dane. He was
smoking his big briar and drinking a huge glass of brown beer. The tree
gave a pleasant shade, and he had thrown his sombrero on a chair. I
noted how his high brow was bronzed by the sun and there were golden
lights in his broad beard. There was something massive and imposing in
the man as he sat there in brooding thought.

MacBean, he told me, was sick and unable to leave