thing seemed to be wrong; I awoke very often and only now I see what has been the cause of my restlessness. I forgot to make friends of the night watchman of my district and therefore, for the first time in years, I had not placed a string around my wrist whose other end would hang out of the window to the street, so that the night watchman could wake me easily if anything of importance should happen somewhere after midnight. And without this string I cannot pass a quiet night.
Early in the morning are my hours of concentration; usually I do not think at all. I just rest. But after I have once obtained my first news item a kind of fever takes hold of me. I am anxious to get more and more news. I am hunting for a news item continually. Something seems to grind in my head like a millwheel and I am unable to rest until in the evening I lay down with the string around my wrist. But now to the window! How about the view? I couldn’t have selected better situated quarters. The city fire-alarm is plainly visible and if ever fire should break out during the night, I must be the first on the scene. My street is rather narrow but always busy with people; possibly accidents will happen here and though they may not, I’ll make a few fat news items out of my narrow street. At first I shall draw public attention to this street and lengthily describe how narrow it is; a few days later I’ll bring a report that the city fathers are thinking of enlarging the street and I will mention the plans of some contractor that were submitted to a special commission; and still later I’ll write a rather short notice that the project has been abandoned. I can repeat this every year.—Well! Well! There is a singing bird in the house, too. It must be on the third floor if I am not mistaken. By Jove, she sang those scales all out of tune! Now I see it was only a charmingly wrong transition. An awkwardly shrill soprano singing the trite “When the swallows homeward fly”. Oh Lord, please save me from this annoying singing. I wonder who my neighbor across the street is. She is in a garret right beneath the roof, like my own, with drawn window shades, flowers on the window sill. Down below in the street there is boisterous life, and here high above, a peaceful domesticity.
But now let me consult my diary book to see what work is ahead of me. This month is fairly well filled with graduation exercises and school reports; the dedication ceremony of a new high school building. Then there is the new American mill which will be completed, and—well, somebody is liable to die. Somebody will commit murder, accidents will happen, there will be political plots, weddings, and somebody may invent something—fate will be kind to a poor reporter.
Good-bye, my dear little garret! I must start out on my daily grind. Hang that singer! How she must love her eternal “When the swallows homeward fly”—now she’s at it again—for the third time.
All my work is done! I made a hurried trip to the theatre for some possible news. I learned that Miss D. will give a final farewell performance before she leaves for Berlin. Of course that will make an interesting story—what a horrible voice! There she goes again, “When the swallows homeward fly”. I wonder whether she has stopped singing that since morning; I think I'll make it a sad scene—the farewell of Miss D.! After the last act, frantic applause, curtain call after curtain call; flowers showered upon the stage, a laurel wreath, two wreaths, three wreaths—then finally she appears. She wishes to thank the audience for these unexpected manifestations of appreciation and love, but she cannot find adequate words—tears glisten in her eyes—. And in six months she is forgotten. No one even remembers her name! Shallow and fleeting is the fame of actors. Unless one of them should be a Garrick or an Irving, or a Devrien, his fame vanishes a few weeks after the high tide of his career. Hallo there, my little neighbor seems to be curious! While writing, I chanced to glance across to the garret window, and noticed that someone, almost hidden by the white curtains, is watching me. I see the shadow of a female form against the window shades. A woman is moving about in the room.
The profile is very attractive. Why do you hide yourself, you bashful little creature? It is really unnecessary, I could very well look in another direction.
A few minutes ago, when I came home, she had the light burning, with curtains and shades drawn back. I lighted my candle, and down went the shades! I am not envious! Nihil Humani—The string around my wrist, and I’ll turn in.
