King's Favorite, then, desire
him? And will Preferment come if he be wanted? And how does one ask
him?"

All this was inexplicable to the Fool and he took courage to return to
the cave.

"Tell me," he asked of the Wise Man, "did the King's Favorite want
Preferment more than I? And how does Preferment come if he is wanted?"

The Wise Man nodded gently to himself. "Aye," he muttered, "so it is,
so it is." The Fool gazed in amazement at this, but because he thought
all Wise Men are somewhat mad, he waited and did not run away, as his
heels advised.

"Listen," the Wise Man began again, "this man has so wanted Preferment
all his life that he has given up everything that is dear to him. He
has crushed underfoot every dream and vision save this alone, to be
seen in the company of Preferment." The Wise Man turned and looked
about at the Fool. "He has no sod house,--no days afield and by the
brook. He never heard the night-song of the wind or the winter-rune of
the pine. Nothing of all these things that you love has he had."

The Fool's eyes were round with amazement. "No sod house?" But the
other was sunk into a reverie and gave no answer. The Fool stood first
on one foot, then on the other, then with his old smile he turned and
skipped away. As he returned through the night, walking, hopping, or
running, as the need came to him, he crooned to himself a song he had
once made up.

"My lips are a-tremble with a grave little song.
I care not if the wide world hear.'
Its words happened forth as I dreamed and trudged along.
I care not if the wide world hear.

"It has not worth nor weight, it is neither sweet nor strong.
I care not if the wide world hear.
For I sing it to myself when the great doubts throng
And I care not if the wide world hear."

That was all, but he hummed it with great content, beating time with
one hand; and as for the King's Favorite, for all that Preferment
rideth on the pommel of his saddle, I doubt not he never sang such a
song to himself, or took such pleasure in the singing.

_Literary Monthly_, 1907.

THE IMMIGRANTS

HORACE HOLLEY ex-'10

Upon mine ear a deep, unbroken roar
Thunders and rolls, as when the moving sea,
Too long asleep, pours on th' resisting shore
Full half his cohorts, tramping audibly.

Yet here's no rushing of exasperate wind,
Booming revolt amidst a factious tide;
Nor hateful shock on toothed reef and blind,
Of foaming waves t