"
Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt an
abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows.
"Say, Annie," said he confidentially, maybe it's one of the last dreams
of booze, but I've a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile
with a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.
He fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front
steps. If it was the _d t's_, why am I so sore?"
"Shut up, you fool," said Annie.
"If I could find that funny guy's house," said Thomas, in conclusion,
"I'd go up there some day and punch his nose for him."
VI
THE POET AND THE PEASANT
The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion
with nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor.
It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the
song of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams.
When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak
dinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment:
"Too artificial."
Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and
swallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls.
Pages:
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84