"Send us some of your poetry, with the right American ring to it, Johnnie," suggested Miss Martin, "and we will make you the poet of the group."
I think that Ally Merton's clothes on me, and his correct tie, made my good impression, as much as my after-talk around the fireplace, where I spun yarns of my strange life and adventures.
"You made a hit," commented Ally, as he conducted me back to his house, "it's a great opening for you. Follow it up!"
"I will!"
That night I could not sleep. My blood made a tumult through my body. Before dawn I had written two poems on national themes; didactic verses, each with a moral of democracy tagged to it, and much about the worth of simplicity in it, and the dignity of honest labour.
Yes, I would be their poet. And America's poet....
And visions of a comfortable, bourgeois success took me ... interminable Chautauquas, with rows of women listening to my inspiring verses ... visits as honoured guest to the homes of great popular leaders like Roosevelt ... dignity and rides in parlour cars, instead of dusty, dirty box cars ... interviews of weight and speeches of consequence ... and the newspapers would drop their undercurrent of levity when I was written about in them, and treat me with consideration.
Finally, I would possess a home like Mackworth's, set back amid shade trees, a house not too large, not too small ... a cook and maid ... a pretty, unobtrusive wife devoted to me....