The San Francisco call., 1896-06-28
CHE PRlZG
POEIR.
THE STORY OF A YOUNG WRITER'S,
TEMPTATION.
BY JUDITH SPENCER.

''write poem! never can"
s'Nor Il'
Nor Il"
perhaps it won't be so hard after all.
And we've three whole weeks to do it in,
you know" said Ned Martin.
ooh, yes; we all know it's easy enough
for you to write, Ned" said Jack Dale.
"And as you always get the composition
prize, of course you'll win it again this
time"
Pm not so certain" said Ned, iauntily.
But the boys all agreed that it was "a
dead sure thing, :" and Ned soon began to
think so himself. 1t was just after
school and the boys had assembled in the
big hall to talk things over before they
separated for the rest of the day.
During the last hour Mr.. Dean had given
out that their next composition was to be
in the form of poem; and each BOY had
drawn folded paper containing his SUBJ
iect, which was to be kept to himself, and
he was to write his verses without consult
ing any one and without outside help.
Each was also to sign an assumed name,
so that even Mr.. Dean should not know
who the writer was until after the an
nouncement of the prize winner. On the
appointed day the best poem was to be
read aloud, and when the signature was
afterward read out, the boy to whom 1t
belonged was to rise.
There was much talk about the forth
coming poems as the days passed on, ana
much groaning and comic despair. Evi-
dently the latent genius that Mr.. Dean
was hopeful of discovering was too well
hidden to be easily brought to light, or
perhaps was lacking altogether.
Among the boys the opinion was, as 1t
had been from the first, that Ned Martin
was sure to win, for he was always clever
fellow with his pen. And Ned did not
contradict them, for now he was most
anxious to get the prize and keep up his
reputation for cleverness. But still. two
days before the appointed time for hand
ing in the compositions he was as far from
having written his poem as ever.
His subject was Content" and he had
not found the theme inspiring. Ideas
would not come, words would not rhyme
and there was no such thing in him as
rhythml
It was raining hard that afternoon and
the ball game had been put off. Not know
ing lust what to do Ned had betaken him
self at last to the attic and was rummag-
ing through an old chestful of things that
had belonged to his father when he was
a boy.
And there he came across little old
tettered book, without covers or title page,
yellow with age and dampness, and in
this-on one of those yellowed pages-he
found printed poem, just what he wanted
TO say, and in words so plain and simple
that it seemed as if any schoolboy might
have written it. Here are the lines:
Happy the man, whose wish and care
few paternal acres bound,
Content to breath his native air
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with
bread,
Whose focks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade;
In winter, fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours days and years slide soft away
IN health of body, peace OF mind,
Quiet by day.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
fell where lie.
Ned felt sudden temptation to copy it,
all but the last verse, which he did not like,
making one or two changes in the words,
perhaps, and to hand it in for his own
poem. The book, whatever it was, was SO