knows but it may be in letters or art?
'Tis a dignified business to make folk think."
But the aunt cried, "What! Go messing with ink?
And smear all his fingers, and take to drink?
Paint hussies and cows, and end in the clink?"

So the argument ran; but one bright Spring day
Sym settled it all in his own strange way.
"'Tis a tramp," he announced, "I've decided to be;
And I start next Monday at twenty to three . . ."
When the aunt recovered she screamed, "A tramp?
A low-lived, pilfering, idle scamp,
Who steals people's washing, and sleeps in the damp?"

Sharp to the hour Sym was ready and dressed.
"Young birds," sighed the father, "must go from the nest.
When the green moss covers those stones you tread,
When the green grass whispers above my head,
Mark well, wherever your path may turn,
They have reached the valley of peace who learn
That wise hearts cherish what fools may spurn."

So Sym went off; and a year ran by,
And the father said, with a smile-masked sigh,
"It is meet that the young should leave the nest."
Said the aunt, "Don't spill that soup on your vest!
Nor mention his name! He's our one disgrace!
And he's probably sneaking around some place
With fuzzy black whiskers all over his face."

But, under a hedge, by a flowering peach,
A youth with a little blue wren held speech.
With his back to a tree and his feet in the grass,
He watched the thistle-down drift and pass,
And the cloud-puffs, borne on a lazy breeze,
Move by on their errand, above the trees,
Into the vault of the mysteries.

"Now, teach me, little blue wren," said he.
"'Tis you can unravel this riddle for me.
I am 'mazed by the gifts of this kindly earth.
Which of them all has the greatest worth?"
He flirted his tail as he answered then,
He bobbed and he bowed to his coy little hen:
"Why, sunlight and worms!" said the little blue wren.

VI. THE END OF JOI

They climbed the trees . . . As was told before,
The Glugs climbed trees in the days of yore,
When the oldes tree in the land to-day
Was a tender little seedling--Nay,
This climbing habit was old, so old
That even the cheeses could not have told
When the past Glug people first began
To give their lives to the climbing plan.
And the legend ran
That the art was old as the mind of man.

And even the mountains old and hoar,
And the billows that broke on Gosh's shore
Since the far-off neolithic night,
All kne