"I might not think so. Did you establish the column 'Sharps and Flats' at once?" "Yes. I told Stone I'd write a good deal of musical matter, and the name seemed appropriate. We tried to change it several times, but no go." "I first saw your work in the 'News.' I was attracted by your satirical studies of Chicago. I don't always like what you write, but I liked your war against sham." Field became serious at once, and leaned towards the other man in an attitude of great earnestness. The deepest note in the man's voice came out. "I hate a sham or a fraud; not so much a fraud, for a fraud means brains very often, but a sham makes me mad clear through," he said savagely. His fighting quality came out in the thrust of the chin. Here was the man whom the frauds and shams fear. "That is evident. But I don't think the people make the broadest application of your satires. They apply them to Chicago. There is quite a feeling. I suppose you know about this. They say you've hurt Chicago art." "I hope I have, so far as the bogus art and imitation culture of my city is concerned. As a matter of fact the same kind of thing exists in Boston and New York, only they're used to it there. I've jumped on that crowd of faddists, I'll admit, as hard as I could, but I don't think anyone can say I've ever willingly done a real man or woman an injury. If I have, I've always tried to square the thing up." Here was the man's fairness, kindliness of heart, coming to the surface in good simple way. The other man was visibly impressed with his friend's earnestness, but he pursued his course. "You've had offers to go East, according to the papers." "Yes, but I'm not going--why should I? I'm in my element here. They haven't any element there. They've got atmosphere there, and it's pretty thin sometimes, I call it." He uttered "atmosphere" with a drawling attenuated nasal to express his contempt. "I don't want literary atmosphere. I want to be in an _element_ where I can tumble around and yell without falling in a fit for lack of breath." The interviewer was scratching away like mad--this was his chance. Field's mind took a sudden turn now, and he said emphatically: "Garland, I'm a newspaper man. I don't claim to be anything else. I've never written a thing for the magazines, and I never was asked to, till about four years ago. I never have put a high estimate upon my verse. That it's popular is because my sympathies and the public's happen to run on parallel lines just now. That's all. Not much of it will live." "I don't know about that, brother Field," said Garland, pausing to rest. "I think you underestimate some of that work. Your reminiscent boy-life poems and your songs of children are thoroughly American, and fine and tender. They'll take care of themselves."