edle, I with pen,
We slaved and sang above the city.
And as across my streams of ink
I watched her from a poet's distance,
She stitched and sang . . . I scarcely think
She was aware of my existence.

And then one day she sang no more.
That put me out, there's no denying.
I looked--she labored as before,
But, bless me! she was crying, crying.
Her poor canary chirped in vain;
Her pink geranium drooped in sorrow;
"Of course," said I, "she'll sing again.
Maybe," I sighed, "she will to-morrow."

Poor child; 'twas finished with her song:
Day after day her tears were flowing;
And as I wondered what was wrong
She pined and peaked above her sewing.
And then one day the blind she drew,
Ah! though I sought with vain endeavor
To pierce the darkness, well I knew
My sewing-girl had gone for ever.

And as I sit alone to-night
My eyes unto her room are turning . . .
I'd give the sum of all I write
Once more to see her candle burning,
Once more to glimpse her happy face,
And while my rhymes of cheer I'm ringing,
Across the sunny sweep of space
To hear her singing, singing, singing.

Heigh ho! I realize I am very weary. It's nice to be so tired, and to
know one can sleep as long as one wants. The morning sunlight floods in
at my window, so I draw the blind, and throw myself on my bed. . . .

IV

My Garret,

Montparnasse, April.

Hurrah! As I opened my eyes this morning to a hard, unfeeling world,
little did I think what a surprise awaited me. A big blue envelope had
been pushed under my door. Another rejection, I thought, and I took it
up distastefully. The next moment I was staring at my first cheque.

It was an express order for two hundred francs, in payment of a bit of
verse.. . . So to-day I will celebrate. I will lunch at the
D'Harcourt, I will dine on the Grand Boulevard, I will go to the
theater.

Well, here's the thing that has turned the tide for me. It is somewhat
in the vein of "Sourdough" Service, the Yukon bard. I don't think much
of his stuff, but they say he makes heaps of money. I can well believe
it, for he drives a Hispano-Suiza in the Bois every afternoon. The
other night he was with a crowd at the Dome Cafe, a chubby chap who sits
in a corner and seldom speaks. I was disappointed. I thought he was a
big, hairy man who swore like