Then he began to play with his little son: he put him on his knee and, tossing him up, sang in a poor tenor:
"Tramp, tramp,
On somebody's bridge!
When I grow rich
I will pave my own bridge,
And nobody else
Shall walk over my bridge."
They spent the evening merrily, and the next morning the poet took his verses to an editor, who spoke in a profound manner (these editors are all profound—that is why their magazines are so dry)?
"H'm!" said the editor, rubbing his nose. "You know, this is not altogether bad, and, what is more important, it is quite in the spirit of the times. Very much so. You seem to have discovered yourself. You must continue in the same strain. Sixteen copecks a line ... four ... forty-eight. I congratulate you."
The verses were printed, and the poet felt as if he had had another birthday. His wife kissed him fervently, and said dreamily:
"Oh, my poet!"
They had a great time. But a youth, a very good youth, who was earnestly seeking the meaning of life, read these verses and shot himself dead.
He was quite convinced, you see, that, before denouncing life, the poet had sought the meaning as long as he himself had done, and that the search had been attended by sorrow, as in his own case. The youth did not know that these sombre thoughts were sold at the rate of sixteen copecks a line. He was an earnest youth.
Let not the reader think I mean that even a whip can, at times, be used on people to their advantage.