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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Muddie, you've overdrawn again!" Mary accused her. For Mamma had an income of a thousand a year. "No, dear, it's not that. I am a little overdrawn, but it's not that. But you see Richie Carter lives right next do' to the Arch'balds," Mamma's natural Southern accent was gaining strength every day now, "and it might be awkward, meetin' him, don't you know?" "Awkward?" Mary echoed, frowning.
Then she turned and opened the door of her small house and led the way to her neat bed-chamber where, upon her own immaculate bed, the sick man was gently laid henceforth, as long as need be, a cot in the sitting-room would be good enough for her. The little Virginia, her soft eyes filled with wonder, had followed her mother upon tip-toe. "Who is it, Muddie?" she questioned in an awed whisper.
Mother Clemm's one candle was burning low its light and that of the dying fire barely relieved the room from darkness and did not prevent the rays of the newly arisen full moon from coming through the lattice and pouring a heap of silver upon the bare floor. "Look Muddie! Look Sissy!" cried the poet.
It was the dear "Muddie," their ever faithful earthly Providence to whom they were already so deeply indebted, who discovered in the suburb of Fordham, a tiny cottage which had much of the charm of which they dreamed even to the infinitesimal price for which it could be rented.
In order to make as much without a regular salary it would be necessary for him to sell a great many articles and that they should be promptly paid for. And so he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, while "Muddie" took the little rolls of manuscript around and around seeking a market for them.
"This will earn us the money to bring Muddie and Catalina to New York," he said with confidence. At last the manuscript was finished and no sooner was the ink dry upon the paper than he took it to The Sun, which promptly bought and paid for it, and upon the next Sunday, April 13, printed it not as a story, but as news. "Astounding News by Express, via Norfolk!"
And oftentimes as she lay there "Eddie" sat at a table nearby and wrote upon the long strips of paper which he rolled into the neat little rolls which he or "Muddie" took around to the editors. And sometimes the editors were glad to have them, and to pay little checks for them, and sometimes not.
Her cheeks were pink with the exertion she had been making and her sleeves were rolled up, leaving her dimpled, white arms bare to the elbow. Her soft eyes were radiant and she was laughing for sheer delight in the picture the stately "Muddie" made white-washing the palings that enclosed the wee garden-spot from the street.
Love, fame, the dominion of intellect, the consciousness of power, the thrilling sense of beauty, the free air of Heaven, exercise of body and mind with the physical and moral health that these bring; these, and such as these are really all a poet cares about. Then why should he mind what the world calls poverty?" "Why indeed?" echoed happy "Muddie."
He dashed off and posted answers to the letters at once, making violent protest against a scheme that seemed to him positively iniquitous and pleading with "Muddie" to keep Virginia for him. But writing was not enough. He determined to answer in person.
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