“What kind of work did you try to do in the city?” “I wanted to paint rainbows and gild sidewalks and blow bubbles for a living. But no one wanted me to. It is about all I am fit for.” “Don’t talk nonsense to me, young man!” “Pardon me, leddy--I am a writer of rhymes.” “The nation’s going to the dogs,” she said. I suppose I was the principal symptom of national decay. Just then a happy voice called through the house, “Come to supper.” “That’s for you,” said the grandmother. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” IV GRETCHEN-CECILIA, WAITRESS I went in the direction of the voice, delighted, not ashamed. There, in that most cleanly kitchen, stood the white-armed milkmaid, with cheeks of geranium red. She had spread a table before me in the presence of mine enemy. I said: “I did not ask for supper. I told you I had eaten.” “Oh, I knew you were hungry. Wait on him, Gretchen-Cecilia.” My hostess scurried into the other room. She was in a glorious mood over something with which I had nothing to do. Gretchen-Cecilia came out of the pantry and poured me a glass of warm milk. I looked at her, and my destiny was sealed forevermore--at least for an hour or so. The sight of her brought the tears to my eyes. I know you are saying: “Beware of the man with tears in his eyes.” Yes, I too have seen weeping exhibitions. I remember a certain pious exhorter. The collection followed soon. And I used to hear an actor brag about the way he wept when he looked upon a certain ladylike actress whom we all adore. He vividly pictured himself with a handkerchief to his devoted cheeks, waiting in the wings for his cue. He had belladonna eyes. At the risk of being classed with such folk, I reaffirm that I was a little weepy. I insist it was not gratitude for a sudden square meal--if truth be told, I have had many such--it was the novel Gretchen-Cecilia. It took little conversation to show that Gretchen-Cecilia was a privileged character. She had little of the touch of the farm upon her. She was the spoiled pet of the house, and the index of their prosperity--what novelists call the third generation. She had a way of lifting her chin and shoving her fists deep into her apron pockets. I said: “I have a fairy-tale to read to you after supper.” And she said: “I like fairy-tales.” And then, redundantly: “I like stories about fairies. Fairy stories are nice.” It was no little pleasure to eat after nine hours doing without, and to dwell on beauty such as this after so many days of absence from the museums of art and the curio shops. Every time she brought me warm biscuits or refilled my tumbler, she brought me pretty thoughts as well. She was nine years old, she told me. Her eyes were sometimes brown, sometimes violet. Her mouth was half a cherry, and her chin the quintessence of elegance. Her braids were long and rich, her ribbons wide and crisp.