"'Oh, I dunno; I don't care so very much about it.'"

"'Well, I'll read you one verse of the "Lines to Hannah." He says--to
Hannah, mind you--

"The little birds sing sweetly
In the weeping willows green,
The village girls dress neatly--
Oh, tell me, do I dream?"

Now, you see, Grady, that is what is unseating my mind. A man can't
stand more than a certain amount of that kind of thing. What do the
public care whether he is dreaming or whether he is drunk? What does
Hannah care? Why, they don't care a cent. Now, do they?

"'Not a red cent.'

"'Of course not. And yet Markley sends me another poem, entitled
"Despondency," in which he exclaims,

"Oh, bury me deep in the ocean blue,
Where the roaring billows laugh;
Oh, cast me away on the weltering sea,
Where the dolphins will bite me in half."

Now, Mr. Grady, if you can find a competent assassin, I wouldn't make
it a point with him to oblige Mr. Markley. I don't care particularly
to have the poet buried in the weltering sea. If he can't find a
roaring billow, I'll be perfectly satisfied to have him chucked into a