g you forth, and forever and aye,
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."

So I kicked them out with a scornful roar;
Yet, oh, they turned at the garret door;
Quietly there they spoke once more:
"The tale is not all told.
It's _au revoir_, but it's not good-by;
We're yours, old chap, till the day you die;
Laugh on, you fool! Oh, you'll never defy
Hunger and Thirst and Cold."

Hurrah! The crisis in my financial career is over. Once more I have
weathered the storm, and never did money jingle so sweetly in my pocket.
It was MacBean who delivered me. He arrived at the door of my garret
this morning, with a broad grin of pleasure on his face.

"Here," said he; "I've sold some of your rubbish. They'll take more
too, of the same sort."

With that he handed me three crisp notes. For a moment I thought that
he was paying the money out of his own pocket, as he knew I was
desperately hard up; but he showed me the letter enclosing the cheque he
had cashed for me.

So we sought the Grand Boulevard, and I had a Pernod, which rose to my
head in delicious waves of joy. I talked ecstatic nonsense, and seemed
to walk like a god in clouds of gold. We dined on frogs' legs and
Vouvray, and then went to see the Revue at the Marigny. A very merry
evening.

Such is the life of Bohemia, up and down, fast and feast; its very
uncertainty its charm.

Here is my latest ballad, another attempt to express the sentiment of
actuality:

The Auction Sale

Her little head just topped the window-sill;
She even mounted on a stool, maybe;
She pressed against the pane, as children will,
And watched us playing, oh so wistfully!
And then I missed her for a month or more,
And idly thought: "She's gone away, no doubt,"
Until a hearse drew up beside the door . . .
I saw a tiny coffin carried out.

And after that, towards dusk I'd often see
Behind the blind another face that looked:
Eyes of a young wife watching anxiously,
Then rushing back to where her dinner cooked.
She often gulped it down alone, I fear,
Within her heart the sadness of despair,
For near to midnight I would vaguely hear
A lurching step, a stumbling on the stair.

These little dramas of the common day!
A man weak-willed and fore-ordained to fail . . .
The window's empty now, they've gone away,
And yonder, se