_Dear Sister: Hear the conclusion of the whole matter. You dream like mad, you love like tinder, you aspire like a star-struck moth--for what? That you may hive little lyrics, and sell to a publisher for thirty pieces of silver. Hard by us here is a 'bee-farm.' It always reminds me of a publisher's. The bee has loved a thousand flowers, through a hundred afternoons, he has filled little sacred cells with the gold of his stolen kisses--for what? That the whole should be wrenched away and sold at so much 'the comb'--as though it were a hair-comb. 'Mummy is become merchandise ... and Pharaoh is sold for balsams.'…
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