kins and his gift of song. Dick, though feeling
more deeply upon the subject than any of the rest, was wise enough not to
say too much.

"I found something under his mattress," remarked Dick, when the
conversation flagged, "while I was taking his blooming crib apart to chop
it up. I guess it must be a poem."

He drew a sorely flattened roll from his pocket, and slipped off the
crumpled blue ribbon. It was, indeed, a poem, entitled "Farewell."

"I thought he might have been polite enough to say good bye," said
Dorothy. "Perhaps it was easier to write it."

"Read it," cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. "Please do!"

So Dick read as follows:

All happy times must reach an end
Sometime, someday, somewhere,
A great soul seldom has a friend
Anyway or anywhere.
But one devoted to the Ideal
Must pass these things all by,
His eyes fixed ever on his Art,
Which lives, though he must die.

Amid the tide of cruel greed
Which laps upon our shore,
No one takes thought of the poet's need
Nor how his griefs may pour
Upon his poor, devoted head
And his sad, troubled heart;
But all these things each one must take,
Who gives his life to Art.

His crust of bread, his tick of straw
His enemies deny,
And at the last his patron saint
Will even pass him by;
The wide world is his resting place,
All o'er it he may roam,
And none will take the poet in,
Or offer him a home.

The tears of sorrow blind him now,
Misunderstood is he,
But thus great souls have always been,
And always they will be;
His eyes fixed ever on the Ideal
Will be there till he die,
To-night he goes, but leaves a poem
To say good bye, good bye!

"Poor Mr. Perkins," commented Dorothy, softly.

"Yes," mimicked Harlan, "poor Mr. Perkins. I don't see but what he'll have
to work now, like any plain, ordinary mortal, with no 'gift'."

"What is the Ideal, anyway?" queried Elaine, looking thoughtfully into the
embers of the poet's bed