e his Wife stood with her Hand on her
Heart, he reported that the He-Gossip would be found on top of the
Grape-Arbor.

MORAL: _Any one hoping to do Something in the Rescue Line had better go
further than Next Door._

_THE_ FABLE _OF THE_ AUTHOR WHO WAS SORRY _FOR_ WHAT HE DID _TO_ WILLIE

An Author was sitting at his Desk trying to pull himself together and
grind out Any Old Thing that could be converted into Breakfast Food. It
was his Off Day, however. His Brain felt as if some one had played a
Mean Trick on him and substituted a Side-Order of Cauliflower. All he
could do was to lean up against his Desk and make marks and Piffle his
Time away. Between Scribbles he wrote a few Verses about, "When Willie
Came to say Good Night." It was a Sad Effort. He made it almost as Salty
as a Mother Song and filled it with Papa and Mamma and the Patter of
Baby Feet. He used Love-Light and the Evening Prayer and the
Heart-Strings and other venerable Paraphernalia. He had to commit
Infanticide to make it Weepy enough for the last Stanza. The Author
wrote this Stuff merely to Get Back at himself and see how Sloppy he
could be. He did not intend to Print it, because he was not a Vendor of
Death-Beds, and he shrank from making any violent Assault on the
Sensibilities. So he tossed the Idle Product into the Waste-Basket and
wondered if he was biginning to lose his Mind. With that Poem in his
Right Hand he could have walked into Bloomingdale and no Questions
Asked.

While he was still Backing Up and Jockeying for a Fair Start at his
Day's Work, A Friend came in and sat on the Edge of the Desk, and told
him to go right ahead and not pay any Attention.

Seeing the Crumpled Paper in the Basket, the Friend, who was
Inquisitive, hooked it out and read the Lines. Presently, when the
Author looked up, the Friend had big Tears rolling down his Cheeks and
was Sniffling.

"This is the Best Thing you have ever done," said the Friend. "My God,
but it is Pathetic! It will certainly Appeal to any one who has lost a
Child."

"I have no desire to Manufacture any more Sorrow for the Bereaved," said
the Author. "They have had Trouble enough. If I have to deal in White
Caskets or tap the Lachrymal Glands in order to thrash out an Income, I
will cease being an Author and go back to Work."

"But this Poem will touch any Heart," insisted the Friend. "As soon as I
got into it I began to Cry. You can get a Good Price for this."

When it came d