small
but useful, some amusing button hook handles for one of the big
silversmiths and a new radiator cap for Ford cars which will give
them great distinction. An advantage is that any tinsmith can make
them."

"You are indeed a genius," said Uncle George, "and make no mistake,
you will be recognized as such. But we have other calls to make, I
thank you for your courtesy." And bowing to Mr. Pryzik, Rollo and his
uncle descended to the street.

"And now, Rollo," said Uncle George--"you shall see another kind of
artist--the great poetess, Miss Myra Stark. She is an old friend of
mine. She lives in a cellar--there we are, down these steps."

Never in his life had Rollo seen such a strange woman as Miss Myra
Stark. She was very pale except her lips, which were painted a rich
prune colour; her yellow hair was cut very like Rollo's except that it
had no curl. Her smock was of coarse burlap with a skirt of yellow
wool.

"Come in, Man. Come in, Boy," she said, in answer to their knock.
"Take off your shoes if you like. My cellar is near the earth. I never
wear shoes at home. I like to feel my feet on the face of Mother
Earth."

"I wonder if Mother Earth likes it," said Rollo.

"She loves it," said Miss Stark. "Boy, you have the soul of a poet.
_Are_ you a poet?"

"I can recite a little," said Rollo, modestly.

"Do so," commanded his hostess.

Rollo was an obliging little boy and therefore, standing in the middle
of the room, he recited as follows, with appropriate gestures which he
had carefully learned at school:

"THE STRAND"

"One day while strolling on the strand
A pearly shell lay in my hand.
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the place, the day.
As on my onward way I passed
One backward glance behind I cast,
The rolling waves came high and fast
And washed my name away!"

"Bravo!" cried Miss Stark and Uncle George.

"I thank you very much," said Rollo.

"It is a great poem," said Miss Stark. "It sounds simple but it means
more than it says. It has its devious moments. You notice that though
the 'name' is washed away the 'place' and the 'day' remain. I have
just written something myself in the same manner."

"Do let us hear it," said Uncle George.

"I will," replied the poetess. "It is called _Brain-ticks_. Listen:

"In the midnight of day
Myself came to me
Saying, 'See,'--
'See,' I said,
In my hand