a kindly audience. I copied my little song and took it to Alexis, the
only one in the fortress who could appreciate a poetical work. After
preluding a little, I drew my pages from my pocket and read my verses
to him.

"How do you like that?" said I, expecting praise as a tribute due me.
To my great annoyance, Alexis, who was generally pleased with my
writings, declared frankly that my song was worth nothing.

"What do you mean?" said I, with forced calmness. He took the paper
out of my hand and began to criticize without pity, every verse, every
word, tearing me up in the most malicious fashion. It was too much.
I snatched the paper from him, declaring that never again would I show
him any of my compositions.

"We shall see," said he, "if you can keep your word; poets need a
listener as Ivan Mironoff needs a decanter of brandy before dinner.
Who is this Marie to whom you declare your tender feelings? Might it
not be Marie Mironoff?"

"That is none of your business," said I, frowning. "I want neither
your advice nor supposition."

"Oh! oh! vain poet; discreet lover," continued Alexis, irritating me
more and more, "listen to friendly counsel: if you want to succeed do
not confine yourself to songs."

"What do you mean, sir? Explain!"

"With pleasure," he replied. "I mean that if you wish to form an