"Your mother -- is she well?"

"Oh no! oh no! it is not that,
It's something else," she wailed,
My heart was beating pit-a-pat,
My ruddy visage paled.
Like lightning flash in heaven's dome
The fear within me woke:
"Don't say," I cried, "our little home
Has all gone up in smoke!"

She shook her head. Oh, swift I clasped
And held her to my breast;
"The children! Tell me quick," I gasped,
"Believe me, it is best."
Then, then she spoke; 'mid sobs I caught
These words of woe divine:
"It's coo-coo-cook has gone and bought
~A new hat just like mine.~"




At present I am living on bread and milk. By doing this I can rub along
for another ten days. The thought pleases me. As long as I have a crust
I am master of my destiny. Some day, when I am rich and famous,
I shall look back on all this with regret. Yet I think I shall always
remain a Bohemian. I hate regularity. The clock was never made for me.
I want to eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am weary,
drink -- well, any old time.