spring, he stood for a moment in a kind of daze. Then he hurried toward
the nearest telephone booth.

As the Vernes sat at dinner that night in the Abyssinian Room of the
Obelisk Hotel, the poet said to his wife: "It would have been delightful
to spend a few days with the Stocktons."

"My dear," said she, "I wouldn't have these wealthy Americans see how
shabby we are for anything. The children are positively in rags, and
your clothes--well, I don't know what they'll think at Harvard. You know
if this lecture trip doesn't turn out well we shall be simply bankrupt."

The poet sighed. "I believe Stockton has quite a charming place in the
country near New York," he said.

"That may be so," said Mrs. Verne. "But did you ever see such clothes?
He looked like a canary."




DON MARQUIS


There is nothing more pathetic than the case of the author who is the
victim of a supposedly critical essay. You hold him in the hollow of
your hand. You may praise him for his humour when he wants to be
considered a serious and saturnine dog. You may extol his songs of war
and passion when he yearns to be esteemed a light, jovial merryandrew
with never a care in the world save the cellar plumbing. You may utterly