t where's the poem, Molly," cried Judy, when the racket had
subsided. "We must see the poem."

"It's locked in my trunk."

"Get it out, get it out," they ordered, and she had no peace until she
unlocked the trunk and, rummaging in her portfolio, found the original
manuscript of "The Chalet of the West Wind."

"I can't see why it won the prize," she said. "I hadn't even the shadow
of a hope when I sent it. It's not a bit like an ad."

"It was certainly what they wanted," said Sallie. "They didn't have to
give you the prize, seeing that they had several hundred to choose from.
But read it, because I'm in a fever of curiosity to hear it."

In the meantime, Judy had lit the gas, and taking Molly by the
shoulders, pushed her into a chair under the light.

"I'm most awfully embarrassed," announced Molly, "but here goes," and
she read the following verses:

The Chalet of the West Wind.

"Wind of the West, Wind of the West,
Breathe on my little chalet.
Blow over summer fields,
Bring all their perfume yields,
Lily and clover and hay.

"Bring all the joys of spring,
Soft-kissing zephyrs bring,
Peace of the mountains and hills,
Waken the columbine,
Stir the sweet breath of pine,
Hasten the late daffodils.

"Gentle Wind from the Isles of the Blest,
Breathe on my little chalet,
Fill it with music and laughter and rest;
Fill it with love and with dreams that are best;
Breathe on it softly, sweet Wind of the West,
Breathe on my little chalet."

There was certainly nothing very remarkable about the little song, and
yet it had caught the eye of the real estate men as having a certain
quality which would attract people to that sunny mountainside whereon
were perched the quaint Swiss chalets they desired to sell. There was a
subtle suggestion to the buyer that he might find rest and happiness in
this peaceful home. The piney air, the flowers and the sunshine had all
been poetically but quite truthfully described. With a picture of the
"Chalet of the West Wind" on the opposite page, people of discerning
tastes, looking for summer homes, would surely be attracted.

"How ever did you happen to write it, Molly?" they asked her after
re-reading the poem and admiring it with friendly loyalty. "Have you
ever been to the mountains?"

"No," she answered, "I actually never have. But something in me that
wasn't me wrote the verses. They just s