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CONTENTS

PAGE        I 1       II 12      III 21      IV 32       V 41     VI 48    VII 52   VIII 62     IX 73      X 85     XI 92    XII 100   XIII 104   XIV 111    XV 119  XVI 133 XVII 138

IOLE

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I

 ain’t never knowed no one like him,” continued the station-agent reflectively. “He made us all look like monkeys, but he was good to us. Ever see a ginuine poet, sir?”

“Years ago one was pointed out to me,” replied Briggs.

“Was yours smooth shaved, with large, fat, white fingers?” inquired the station-agent.

“If I remember correctly, he was thin,” said Briggs, sitting down on his suit-case and gazing apprehensively around at the landscape.

There was nothing to see but low, forbidding mountains, and forests, and a railroad track curving into a tunnel.

The station-agent shoved his hairy hands into the pockets of his overalls, jingled an unseen bunch of keys, and chewed a dry grass stem, ruminating the while in an undertone:

“This poet come here five years ago with all them kids, an’ the fust thing he done was to dress up his girls in boys’ pants. Then he went an’ built a humpy sort o’ house