his room. Rheumatism.
So I bought a cooked chicken and a bottle of Barsac, and mounting to the
apartment of the invalid, I made him eat and drink. MacBean was very
despondent, but cheered up greatly.

I think he rather dreads the future. He cannot save money, and all he
makes he spends. He has always been a rover, often tried to settle down
but could not. Now I think he wishes for security. I fear, however, it
is too late.

The Wistful One

I sought the trails of South and North,
I wandered East and West;
But pride and passion drove me forth
And would not let me rest.

And still I seek, as still I roam,
A snug roof overhead;
Four walls, my own; a quiet home. . . .
"You'll have it--_when you're dead_."

MacBean is one of Bohemia's victims. It is a country of the young. The
old have no place in it. He will gradually lose his grip, go down and
down. I am sorry. He is my nearest approach to a friend. I do not make
them easily. I have deep reserves. I like solitude. I am never so
surrounded by boon companions as when I am all alone.

But though I am a solitary I realize the beauty of friendship, and on
looking through my note-book I find the following:

If You Had a Friend

If you had a friend strong, simple, true,
Who knew your faults and who understood;
Who believed in the very best of you,
And who cared for you as a father would;
Who would stick by you to the very end,
Who would smile however the world might frown:
I'm sure you would try to please your friend,
You never would think to throw him down.

And supposing your friend was high and great,
And he lived in a palace rich and tall,
And sat like a King in shining state,
And his praise was loud on the lips of all;
Well then, when he turned to you alone,
And he singled you out from all the crowd,
And he called you up to his golden throne,
Oh, wouldn't you just be jolly proud?

If you had a friend like this, I say,
So sweet and tender, so strong and true,
You'd try to please him in every way,
You'd live at your bravest--now, wouldn't you?
His worth would shine in the words you penned;
You'd shout his praises . . . yet now it's odd!
You tell me you haven't got such a friend;
You haven't? I wonder . . . _What of God?_

To how few is granted the privilege o