“Yes, Uncle Bill’s a fine, quaint old chap ... whenever he has a tiff with his wife—­of course, never anything serious—­he locks himself in the kitchen ... closes all the windows ... smokes up terrifically with his corncob ... and plays and plays for hours on end ... his Red Seal records of classical music of which he is so fond.

“This behaviour of his is a well-known joke among us, a joke with his wife, to!” ... the speaker paused, to continue—­

“He has a good library and quite a large knowledge of the English poets.”

“That makes it all the more terrible,” I replied, “for if he wrote his verse-prose out of ignorance, he might be somewhat forgiven ... but he knows better.”

* * * * *

I gave a lecture on Keats to a woman’s club.  They paid me thirty dollars for the lecture....

“Well, you surely made a killing ... those old birds will worship you for life,” sniggered Ally.

* * * * *

Mackworth and I had a farewell talk before I returned to Laurel.  We stood again in front of his office, on the sunny street ... he had come out to bid me good-bye.

We talked of the folk poetry of America....  Mackworth recited to me several of the songs and ballads which I have since seen in Lomax’s book of Cowboy Songs....  I repeated the tale of how I had collected the jail-songs that I subsequently lost while jumping a freight....

“There’s lots of poetry in American life ...  Stephen Foster Collins scratched the surface of it ... but he was a song writer....

“There’s poetry on farm, ranch, in small town, big city, all waiting for the transmuting touch of the true singer ... not newspaper rhymes ... neither the stock effusions on Night, Love, Death and Immortality inserted as tail-piece to stories and articles in magazines....

“There’s the negro mind ...—­ought to hear them sing, making up songs as they load and unload boats along the Mississippi ... nobody’s ever dug back into the black mind yet—­why don’t you do these things?"...

* * * * *

“Good-bye, Mister Mackworth—­I’ve had a fine time!”

“Good-bye, my boy ... be a good boy ...  God bless you!”

* * * * *

At the Harvey Eating House the manager brought me out a cardboard box neatly packed, full of all manner of good things to eat....

“Good-bye, Ally! thanks for your hospitality, Ally! thank your folks for me again!”

“I will.  See you up at Laurel some day soon!”

For Merton was coming to study there, in the fall.

* * * * *

Back in Laurel I resumed my studies again in my intense though haphazard way.  Doctors’ degrees and graduation certificates did not interest me.  I meditated no career in which such credentials would stand me in stead.  But the meat and substance of what the world had achieved, written, thought—­it was this that I sought to learn and know.