living on the ragged edge. My manuscripts come back to me like boomerangs,
and I have not the postage, far less the heart, to send them out again.

MacBean seems to take an interest in my struggles. I often sit in his room
in the rue Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, smoking and sipping whisky
into the small hours. He is an old hand, who knows the market
and frankly manufactures for it.

"Give me short pieces," he says; "things of three verses that will fill
a blank half-page of a magazine. Let them be sprightly, and, if possible,
have a snapper at the end. Give me that sort of article.
I think I can place it for you."

Then he looked through a lot of my verse: "This is the kind of stuff
I might be able to sell," he said:




A Domestic Tragedy



Clorinda met me on the way
As I came from the train;
Her face was anything but gay,
In fact, suggested pain.
"Oh hubby, hubby dear!" she cried,
"I've awful news to tell. . . ."
"What is it, darling?" I replied;