st has a passion for creation. He _must_ draw, or
paint, or act, or sing, or write. That which is within him demands
expression and will not be denied. His love is for the work and not for
the reward or the applause. These are but incidental. His visions and
dreams are of ever greater achievements and not of an ever increasing
income or wider popularity. Work well done and the conscious approval of
his own mind are the sweetest nectar to his soul.

But this passion of creation is, perhaps, not enough in itself. "Art is a
jealous mistress." Even the passion for creation must wait upon slowly and
painfully acquired technique, and, in the case of painting, sculpture,
instrumental music, and some other forms of art, upon inherent capacity
and manual skill. Many an artist's soul is imprisoned in a clumsy body
which will not do its bidding.

"Art is long," and he who is unwilling or unable to keep alive the divine
spark through years of poverty had better turn back before he sets forth
upon the great adventure. Searching the portraits of the world's great
artists, living and dead, you will not find a lazy man amongst them.

AN ATTEMPT TO MIX INDOLENCE AND POETRY

During our school days we made the acquaintance of Larime Hutchinson, then
a lad of twenty, shy, self-conscious, pathetically credulous, and hobbled
by a prodigious ineptitude which made him a favorite butt for schoolboy
jokes and pranks. Larime was in great disfavor with the teachers because
he almost never had his lessons. He was also in disfavor with the college
treasurer because he did not pay his bills. Larime's father was a country
minister and could send him only a few dollars a month. The rest of his
financial necessities he was supposed to meet by sawing wood, mowing
lawns, attending furnaces, and other such odd jobs. But Larime never could
hold these jobs because he was too lazy to do them well. He was also in
high disfavor with his schoolmates, first, because of his timidity and
self-consciousness; second, because of the strange air of superiority
which, paradoxically enough, he managed to affect even in spite of these
handicaps. A little confidential consorting with this peculiar young man
soon revealed the fact that he yearned to be heralded with great acclaim
as "The Poet of the New World." Not only did he yearn; he confidently
expected it. Nay, more; he already was "The Poet of the New World," and
awaited only the day of his acknowledgment by those