The Hays free press. [volume] (Hays, Kan.) 1908-1924, 1911-07-01

have 10 say You have your heart
set, perceive. upon poetry. At Dre1x.
| have a friend, one Monsieur Bril-
Georges Bril- He lives in a little
cleared space In household of books.
He is a learned man; he visits Paris
each year; he himself has written
books He viii tell you when the cat
acomhs were made. how they found
out the names of the stars. and why
the Dl-ver has a long bill The mean
ing and the form Of poetry is 10 him
as intelligent as the baa of a sheep
is TO you l will give you letter to
him. and you shall take him your po-
ems and let him read them Then You
viii know if you shall write more. or
give your attention to your wife and
business"
Write the letter" said David: Il
am sorry you did not speak Of this
sooner"
At sunrise the next morning he was
on the road 10 Dreux with the pre-
cious roll of poems under his arm st
noon he wiped the dust from his feet
at the door Of Monsieur Bril- That
learned man broke the seal Of NJ
Papineau's letter. and sucked UP its
contents through his cleaning specta-
I cles as the sun draws water He
/ took David inside 10 his study and sat
I him down upon a little island beat
upon by a sea OF books.
Monsieur Bril- had a conscience He
I f1inched not even at = mass Of manu-
script the thickness of a finger length
and rolled TO an incOrTigible curve
/ He broke the back OF the roll against
his knee. and began TO read He
! sighted nothing; he bored into the
lump as a worm into q nut, seeking for
a kernel
Meanwhile. David sat marooned,
! trembling il the spray of so much lit
! er7ture. It roared in his ears He
/ held no chart or compass for voyaging
/ in that sea Half the world. he
thought, must be writing books.
Monsieur Bril- bored TO the last page
! of the poems Then he took OF his
/ spectacles and wiped them with his
! handkerchief
My friend. Papineau. is wen?'' he
! asked
In the best of health said David
How many sheep have you. Mon
sieur Mignot?"
counted them yesterday The flock has
had i'll fortune To that number ii has
/ decreased from $50"
You have a wife and home. and
| lived in comfort The sheep brought
you plenty You went into the fields
with them and lived in the keen aid
and ate the sweet bread of contenti
ment You had but TO be Tigilan1
and recline there upon natures breast.
listening to the whistle OF the
blackbirds in the grove Am I right
thus far?"
1t was So" said David
Il have read all your verses" con-
tInued Monsigneur Bril-. MS eyes wan
dering about his sea OF books as IL
he conned the horizon for a sail
Look yonder. Monsignor Mignot; tell
me what you see in that tree
i see a crow" said David. look
ing
There is a bird" said Monsigneur
Bril-. that shall assist where am
/ disposed to shirk a duty. You know
/ that bird. Monsieur NIignot, he is the
I philosopher OF the air He is happy
/ through submission to his lot None
so merry or fuIl-crawed as he with his
/ whimsical eye and rollicking step.
4 The fields yield him what be desires
/ He never gTieTes that his plumage is
not gay, like the orioles And you
have heard, Monsieur MignOt. the
/ notes that nature has given him2 Is
! the nightingale any happier. do you
/ Think
David rose to his feet The crow
cawed harshly from his tree.
Il thank you. Monsieur Bril-" he
said. slowly. There was not then, one
nightingale note among all those
/ croaks?"
q could not have missed it. said
Monsieur Bril-. with a sigh Il read
every word. Live your poetry. man.
do not try to write it any more"
4 thank you" said David. again
And now I viii be going back to my
sheep"
If you would dine with me-" said
the man of books. and overlook the
smart of it. 1 viii give you reasons at
length"
NO." said the poet Il must be back
! In the fields cawing at my sheep"
Back along the road to VerOy he
trudged. with his poems under his
arm
When he reached his cottage Yvonnes.
was not there OF late she had taken TO.
gadding much among the neighbors.
but q fire was glowing in the kitchen
stove Davf6 opened the door Of it
and thrust his poems in upon the
Goals. AS they blazed up they made q
singing, harsh sound in the fue.
The song of the crowl" said the
poet