Joaquin Miller, “The Poet of the Sierras,” recently visited a
friend in Boston whose literary taste runs largely to Emerson,
Browning and Maeterlinck. This friend, says _Lippincott’s
Magazine_, found the venerable poet in the library one
afternoon deeply absorbed in a book.
“What are you reading?” asked the Bostonian.
“A novel by Bret Harte,” replied the poet.
The Hubbite sniffed. “I can not see,” said he, “how an immortal
being can waste his time with such stuff.”
“Are you quite sure,” asked Miller, “that I am an immortal
being?”
“Why, of course you are,” was the unwary reply.
“In that case,” responded the Californian grimly, “I don’t see
why I should be so very economical of my time.”
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