She replied: “Why don’t you go to work?”
I answered: “I asked for work in the big city till I was worn to a
thread. And you are the first person who has urged it on me since I
took to tramping. I wonder why no one ever thought of it before.”
She smiled grudgingly.
“What kind of work did you try to do in the city?”
“I wanted to paint rainbows and gild sidewalks and blow bubbles for a
living. But no one wanted me to. It is about all I am fit for.”
“Don’t talk nonsense to me, young man!”
“Pardon me, leddy--I am a writer of rhymes.”
“The nation’s going to the dogs,” she said. I suppose I was the
principal symptom of national decay.
Just then a happy voice called through the house, “Come to supper.”
“That’s for you,” said the grandmother. “You ought to be ashamed of
yourself.”