When the limpid highbrows chatter
And their candlelights are low;
When their purple souls are bitter
From discussing thus and so,
And the Lucy Stoners twitter
In some frowsy studio;
When the fat-legged mantees mutter
And you see their eyeballs twitch;
When the parlor wobblies hover
Around the newly rich,
And the men of bread-and-butter
Get the "art-for-art's-sake" itch....
Then I don't regret the making
Of this idle verse of mine,
And my pickling by the Poohbahs
In their literary brine,
Nor the gesture of a Burdash
For not hewing to the line.
My humor is the laughter
From life's tickled ribs. It's rough,
For it's written from the raw
Where I like to get my stuff,
And it ought to rise in letters:
Goodness knows it's light enough.
"It is nothing to be ashamed of," said Dan Spain, "I once worked in a slaughter house."
"What books have you had published?" I asked after a time.
"None."
Having had a number of books published myself, I felt that I might be of some service to this hermit scholar who had evidently not adjusted himself to the practical exigencies of the publishing business. "It is just possible," I suggested, "that my experiences and acquaintances might enable me to help you get some of your work in print—that is, if you would care to tell me what you are writing."
Dan Spain leaned over and attended the fire. After poking it to his satisfaction, he picked up a live coal and dropped it in the bowl of his pipe. Finally he spoke, and his words were startling enough. "Just at present," he said, "I am writing an autobiography of God."
There was a sudden rattle at the shutter.