but I’m not going—why should I? I’m in my element here. They haven’t any element there. They’ve got atmosphere there, and it’s pretty thin sometimes, I call it.” He uttered “atmosphere” with a drawling attenuated nasal to express his contempt. “I don’t want literary atmosphere. I want to be in an element where I can tumble around and yell without falling in a fit for lack of breath.”

The interviewer was scratching away like mad—this was his chance.

Field’s mind took a sudden turn now, and he said emphatically: “Garland, I’m a newspaper man. I don’t claim to be anything else. I’ve never written a thing for the magazines, and I never was asked to, till about four years ago. I never have put a high estimate upon my verse. That it’s popular is because my sympathies and the public’s happen to run on parallel lines just now. That’s all. Not much of it will live.”

“I don’t know about that, brother Field,” said Garland, pausing to rest. “I think you underestimate some of that work. Your reminiscent boy-life poems and your songs of children are thoroughly American, and fine and tender. They’ll take care of themselves.”

“Yes, but my best work has been along lines of satire. I’ve consistently made war upon shams. I’ve stood always in my work for decency and manliness and honesty. I think that’ll remain true, you’ll find. I’m not much physically, but morally I’m not a coward.”

“No, I don’t think anybody will rise up to charge you with time-serving. By the way, what a rare chance you have in the attitude of the Chicago people toward the Spanish princess!”

The tall man straightened up. His whole nature roused at this point, and his face grew square. His Puritan grandfather looked from his indignant eyes and set jaw as he said:

“I don’t know what’s coming upon us.”

“Aha!” Garland exulted, “even you are bitten with the same.”

He flung his hand out in quick deprecation.

“Oh, I don’t pretend to be a reformer. I leave that to others. I hate logarithms. I like speculative astronomy. I am naturally a lover of romance. My mind turns toward the far past or future. I like to illustrate the foolery of these society folks by stories which I invent. The present don’t interest me—at least not taken as it is. Possibilities interest me.”

“That’s a good way to put it,” said the other man. “It’s a question of the impossible, the possible, and the probable. I like the probable. I like the near-at-hand. I feel the most vital interest in the average fact.”

“I know you do, and I like it after you get through with it, but I don’t care to deal with the raw material myself. I like the archaic.”