But the tragedy of the colyumist's task is that the better he does it
the harder it becomes. People simply will not leave him alone. All day
long they drop into his office, or call him up on the phone in the hope
of getting into the column. Poor Don! he has become an institution down
on Nassau Street: whatever hour of the day you call, you will find his
queue there chivvying him. He is too gracious to throw them out: his
only expedient is to take them over to the gin cathedral across the
street and buy them a drink. Lately the poor wretch has had to write
his Dial out in the pampas of Long Island, bringing it in with him in
the afternoon, in order to get it done undisturbed. How many times I
have sworn never to bother him again! And yet, when one is passing in
that neighbourhood, the temptation is irresistible.... I dare say Ben
Jonson had the same trouble. Of course someone ought to endow Don and
set him permanently at the head of a chophouse table, presiding over a
kind of Mermaid coterie of robust wits. He is a master of the
tavernacular.

He is a versatile cove. Philosopher, satirist, burlesquer, poet, critic,
and novelist. Perhaps the three critics in this country whose praise is
best worth having, and least easy to win, would be Marquis, Strunsky,
and O.W. Firkins. And I think that the three leading poets male in this
country to-day are Marquis, William Rose Benét, and (perhaps) Vachel
Lindsay. Of course Don Marquis has an immense advantage over Will Benét
in his stoutness. Will had to feed up on honey and candied apricocks and
mares' milk for months before they would admit him to the army.

Hermione and her little group of "Serious Thinkers" have attained the
dignity of book publication, and now stand on the shelf beside "Danny's
Own Story" and "The Cruise of the Jasper B." This satire on the