Every morning the Author would get up and say to himself that it could
not go on much longer. He felt sure that the Public would come to its
Senses some Day, and get after him with a Rope, but it didn't. His Fame
continued to Spread and Increase. All those Persons who had not Read it
claimed that they had, so as to be in Line, and he had the same old
Floral Tributes handed to him Day after Day.
It was Terrible. He had gone to College and spent a large amount of
Money irrigating and fertilizing his Mind, and he had Dreamed of writing
Something that would be Strong enough for Charles Dudley Warner's
Library of the World's Warmest Copy, in a Limited Edition of 20,000; but
instead of landing with the Heavy-Weights he seemed Destined to achieve
Greatness as the Author of a Boy's Size Poem, bearing about the same
Relation to the Literature of the Ages that a May Howard Window Hanger
does to Pure Art. He was Famous until he couldn't rest, but it was not
the Brand he had Coveted.
He decided to Live It Down. He would Produce something Serious and
Meritorious that would throw "Willie's Good Night" into the Shade.
Pages:
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108