just can't ...
it's neither pose nor affectation." (He had intimated that some of the
professors alleged that as the core of the trouble.) "I guess I don't
belong here ... yes, it would be better for me to go away!"

* * * * *

That night, unobserved, I stole into the chapel that stood on the Crest
of the hill, against the infinite stars.

I spent nearly all the night in the chapel, alone. The place was full of
things. I felt there all the gods that ever were worshipped ... and all
the great spirits of mankind. And I perceived fully how silly, weak,
grotesque, and vain I was; and yet, how big and wonderful, it would be
to swim counter, as I meant, to the huge, swollen, successful currents
of the commercial, bourgeois practicality of present-day America.

* * * * *

I pinned up a sign on the bulletin board in the hall, in rhyme,
announcing, that, that afternoon, at four o'clock, John Gregory would
hold an auction of his books of poetry.

* * * * *

My room was crowded with amused students. I mounted the table, like an
auctioneer, while they sat on my cot and on the floor, and crowded the
door.

At first the boys jeered and pushed. But when I started selling my copy
of Byron and telling about his life, they fell into a quiet, and
listened. After I had made that talk, they clapped me. Byron went for a
dollar, fetching the largest price. I sold my Shelley, my Blake, my
Herrick, my Marvell, my Milton ... all....

My Keats I could not bring myself to sell. I kept that like a treasure.
What I could not sell I gave away.

My entire capital was ten dollars ... one suit of clothes ... a change
of underwear ... two shirts. I discarded my trunk and crammed what
little I owned into my battered suitcase.

That night, the story of my dismissal from school having travelled about
from mouth to mouth, and the tale of my poets' auction--the boys
cheered me, as I came into the dining hall--cheered me partly
affectionately, partly derisively.

* * * * *

In the morning mail I received a letter from the New York _Independent_,
a weekly literary magazine. Dr. Ward, the editor, informed me that I
possessed genuine poetic promise, and he was taking two of the poems I
had recently submitted to him, for publication in his magazine.

* * * * *

Like the vagrant I was, I consid