At present I am living on bread and milk. By doing this I can rub along for another ten days. The thought pleases me. As long as I have a crust I am master of my destiny. Some day, when I am rich and famous, I shall look back on all this with regret. Yet I think I shall always remain a Bohemian. I hate regularity. The clock was never made for me. I want to eat when I am hungry, sleep when I am weary, drink–well, any old time.
I prefer to be alone. Company is a constraint on my spirit. I never make an engagement if I can avoid it. To do so is to put a mortgage on my future. I like to be able to rise in the morning with the thought that the hours before me are all mine, to spend in my own way–to work, to dream, to watch the unfolding drama of life.
Here is another of my ballads. It is longer than most, and gave me more trouble, though none the better for that.
THE PENCIL SELLER
A pencil, sir; a penny–won’t you buy?
I’m cold and wet and tired, a sorry plight;
Don’t turn your back, sir; take one just to try;
I haven’t made a single sale to-night.
Oh, thank you, sir; but take the pencil too;
I’m not a beggar, I’m a business man.
Pencils I deal in, red and black and blue;
It’s hard, but still I do the best I can.
Most days I make enough to pay for bread,
A cup o’ coffee, stretching room at night.
One needs so little–to be warm and fed,
A hole to kennel in–oh, one’s all right…
