SUMMER 81 



and the heat is rippling up from the flag- 

 stones and out from the house-fronts, we 

 have only to go to the back windows and 

 look down into the lush greenery to feel as 

 if there were less perspiration. In New 

 York a yard, save just enough of one for 

 clothes to dry and cats to sing in, is an ex- 

 ception. I would rather rent this two- 

 story affair with a few feet of nature added, 

 than live in Fifth Avenue and have no 

 grass to put my feet on. 



And there goes a statement that will be 

 doubted, because there are so many who 

 believe that everybody wants to be rich. 

 Comfortable, free from anxiety, yes. Rich, 

 no. The joys of wealth have been extolled 

 openly in converse, covertly in writing. 

 Few have published the joys of poverty 

 not the pretty sentiment of song and pic- 

 ture, the roses and love and bread and 

 cheese and lowly cottage and all that, but 

 the real enjoyment of it. Think of its irre- 

 sponsibility, of its freedom from duns, for 

 nobody will trust you ; of the security 

 from invitation to drunken dinners, insipid 

 calls, pretentious receptions, solemn func- 



