id it care?
It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;
Its master, yea, its God was there.
Then, as a thrill of wonder sped
Through throngs of shining seraphim,
The Judge of All looked down and said:
"Lo! here is ONE who pleads for him.

"And who shall love of these the least,
And who by word or look or deed
Shall pity show to bird or beast,
By Me shall have a friend in need.
Aye, though his sin be black as night,
And though he stand 'mid men alone,
He shall be softened in My sight,
And find a pleader by My Throne.

"So let this man to glory win;
From life to life salvation glean;
By pain and sacrifice and sin,
Until he stand before Me--_clean_.
For he who loves the least of these
(And here I say and here repeat)
Shall win himself an angel's pleas
For Mercy at My Judgment Seat."

I take my exercise in the form of walking. It keeps me fit and leaves
me free to think. In this way I have come to know Paris like my pocket.
I have explored its large and little streets, its stateliness and its
slums.

But most of all I love the Quays, between the leafage and the sunlit
Seine. Like shuttles the little steamers dart up and down, weaving the
water into patterns of foam. Cigar-shaped barges stream under the
lacework of the many bridges and make me think of tranquil days and
willow-fringed horizons.

But what I love most is the stealing in of night, when the sky takes on
that strange elusive purple; when eyes turn to the evening star and
marvel at its brightness; when the Eiffel Tower becomes a strange,
shadowy stairway yearning in impotent effort to the careless moon.

Here is my latest ballad, short if not very sweet:

The Walkers

(_He speaks._)

Walking, walking, oh, the joy of walking!
Swinging down the tawny lanes with head held high;
Striding up the green hills, through the heather stalking,
Swishing through the woodlands where the brown leaves lie;
Marveling at all things--windmills gaily turning,
Apples for the cider-press, ruby-hued and gold;
Tails of rabbits twinkling, scarlet berries burning,
Wedge of geese high-flying in the sky's clear cold,
Light in little windows, field and furrow darkling;
Home again returning, hungry as a hawk;
Whistling up the garden, ruddy-cheeked and sparkling,
Oh, but I am happy as I