and how Proud he ought to be. Many who wrote expressed Sympathy for him,
and begged him to Bear Up. These Letters dazed the Author. He never had
owned any Boy named Willie. He did not so much as Know a Boy named
Willie. He lived in an Office Building with a lot of Stenographers and
Bill Clerks. If he had been the Father of a Boy named Willie, and Willie
had ever come to tell him "Good Night" when he was busy at Something
Else, probably he would have jumped at Willie and snapped a piece out of
his Arm. Just the Same, the Correspondents wrote to him from All Over,
and said they could read Grief in every Line of his Grand Composition.

That was only the Get-Away. The next thing he knew, some Composer in
Philadelphia had set the Verses to Music and they were sung on the Stage
with colored Lantern-Slide Pictures of little Willie telling Papa "Good
Night" in a Blue Flat with Lace Curtains on the Windows and a Souvenir
Cabinet of Chauncey Olcott on the What-Not. The Song was sold at Music
Stores, and the Author was invited out to Private Houses to hear it
Sung, but he was Light on his Feet and Kept Away.

Several Newspapers sent for his Picture, and he was asked to write a
Sunday Article telling how and why he did it. He was asked to Contribute
Verses of the same General Character to various Periodicals. Sometimes
he would get away by himself and read the Thing over again, and shake
his Head and Remark: "Well, if they are Right, then I must be Wrong, but
to me it is Punk."

He had his Likeness printed in Advertisements which told the Public to
read what the Author of "Willie's Good Night" had to say about their
Lithia Water. Some one named a light, free-smoking Five-Cent Cigar after
him, and he began to see Weird Paintings on the Dead Walls, and was
Ashamed to walk along those Streets.