"Oh, after I came back from Europe I was busted, and had to go to work. I met Stanley Waterloo about that time, and his talk induced me to go to work for the 'Journal' as a reporter. I soon got to be city editor, but I didn't like it. I liked to have fun with people. I liked to have my fun as I went along. About this time I married the sister of the friend who went with me to Europe, and feeling my new responsibilities, I went up to St. Joseph as city editor." He mused for a moment in silence. "It was terrific hard work, but I wouldn't give a good deal for those two years." "Have you ever drawn upon them for material?" asked Garland with a novelist's perception of their possibilities. "No, but I may some time. Things have to get pretty misty before I can use 'em. I'm not like you fellows," he said, referring to the realists. "I got thirty dollars a week; wasn't that princely?" "Nothing else, but you earned it, no doubt." "Earned it? Why, Great Scott! I did the whole business except turning the handle of the press. "Well, in 1877 I was called back to the 'Journal' in St. Louis, as editorial writer of paragraphs. That was the beginning of my own line of work." "When did you do your first work in verse?" asked Garland. The tall man brought his feet down to the floor with a bang and thrust his hand out toward his friend. "_There!_ I'm glad you said _verse_. For heaven's sake don't ever say I call my stuff poetry. I never do. I don't pass judgment on it like that." After a little he resumed. "The first that I wrote was 'Christmas Treasures.' I wrote that one night to fill in a chink in the paper." "Give me a touch of it?" asked his friend. He chewed his cigar in the effort to remember. "I don't read it much. I put it with the collection for the sake of old times." He read a few lines of it, and read it extremely well, before returning to his history. CHRISTMAS TREASURES. I count my treasures o'er with care,-- The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair. Long years ago this holy time, My little ones--my all to me-- Sat robed in white upon my knee, And heard the merry Christmas chime. "Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night, What shall he bring my baby bright,-- What treasure for my boy?" I said. Then he named this little toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise, That spake his quiet, trustful joy. And as he lisped his evening prayer, He asked the boon with childish grace, Then, toddling to the chimney-place, He hung this little stocking there. That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home, And kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn with rapturous face, He toddled to the chimney-place, And found this little treasure there.