It occurred to me that I would strike into his cottage, and snatch the best poems from his drawer, and sell them with my name. “I must secure the international copyright,” I said. But I couldn’t dare it, my impulse being thwarted. I am no wicked reporter, don’t you see? I hid me in his historical iron pot all day. N Heine was posting around the following card: _No Shooting._ I venture to say that he is the only one civilised Two-Legged in the whole world. O Where is my napkin? Chinese laundry isn’t punctual in delivery. P I think I must learn how to swear for a pastime. Q My fellow brother Mr. —— was shot this morning. The paper says that there is a possibility of war between Russia and Japan. A preacher prophesies the disappearance of the universe. Everything is precarious in the extreme. I will not poke around outside during the day. I will loaf in the poet’s orchard under the breezy moonlight. Poetical existence is just enough. I will withdraw me to the sanctuary of the Muses. R Heaven be with my soul! Amen! S Good-bye, my dear old world! 21st—A Chinaman passed with a weighty load of washing on his shoulder. “Friend, stop a minute! Take a glass with me before you go!” The poet rolled out with a claret bottle. Did you ever see a Chinee in love? Did you ever see one smile? Mr. Charley smiled a serene smile of the Flower Kingdom pattern. “God bless the Empress Dowager!” Mr. Poet said. Both raised their wine. “The load is too heavy for you. You are killing yourself. I can’t bear to see it. My friend, obey me! Let me help you! Don’t leave till I come back!” The poet, hurried for his questionable buggy and horse. He cracked his whip—he never whips the horse, but he carries it for fashion’s sake, as he remarks—when Mr. Charley protested, “Me oll-righ, you savvy!” The Chinaman was dumbfounded, for the poet was unknown to him. Mr. Heine pushed him in. When he leaped up, he noticed his horse in tender tone: “Go on, baby!” “What a goody-goody! His act never parts from poetry, however,” I said. I was simply dying for an opportunity to explode my good heart, when I invited one tramp to my Willow Cottage. I fed him with one dozen eggs. I emptied out all my change for him. “Don’t you feel cold, lying outdoors?” I said. “Yes, Miss!” “Don’t you need an overcoat?” “Yes, Miss!” When Mr. Tramp left me with an overcoat in his hand, looking like a proud Mayor of Tokio, my uncle was coming from Mrs. Heine’s. “Uncle, you do want to be good to a poor man, don’t you? You have made yourself a great philanthropist with your overcoat.” “What have you done?” “I presented it to a tramp.” “Morning Glory!”