It sang in the trees, it
drummed musically on my tent. It comforted me.
The floodgates of my mind, my inspiration, broke loose. I rose to my
super-self. And now if a horrible thing had stood grey at my elbow,
unmoved, I would have looked it unflinchingly in the sightless
visage....
My pencil raced over paper ... raced and raced.
"Here it comes ... just like your good rain, so kind to earth.... Oh,
beautiful God, I thank Thee for making me a poet," I prayed, tears
streaming down my face.
* * * * *
The second act of _Judas_ stood complete, as if it had written itself.
I rose. It seemed hardly an hour had passed.
It took me a few minutes to work the numbness out of my legs. How they
ached! I stepped out of the tent-door like a drunken man ... fell on my
face in some bushes and bled from several scratches. The blare of what
was full daylight hurt my eyes. I had been writing on, entranced, by
unneeded lamp, when unheeded day burned about me.
Stepping inside again, I saw by my Ingersoll that it was twelve o'clock.
I fell into a deep sleep, still dressed ... I was so exhausted. Usually
I slept absolutely naked.
* * * * *
These were the things that happened while Penton was in jail because he
played tennis on Sunday.
* * * * *
Now I was part and parcel of the household, no longer a stranger-friend
on a visit.
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