by heart, by jing! What melody would
reach the sky if he would but consent to sing!"

When I was young I painted signs, but not a soul my work would buy, for
all my figures and my lines were out of drawing and awry. And so I
said; "It breaks my heart that I can't sell a single sign; but in the
noble realms of art as critic I shall surely shine!" And so I grew a
Vandyke beard, and let my hair grow long as grass, and studied up a
jargon weird, and learned to wear a single glass. Then to the
galleries I went and looked at paintings with a frown, and wept in
dismal discontent that art's so crushed and beaten down. And people
followed in my tracks to ascertain my point of view; whenever I applied
the ax they gaily swung the cleaver, too. And often, through a solemn
hush, I'd hear my rapt admirers say: "If he would only use the brush,
Mike Angelo would fade away!"

THE OLD TIMER

You've built up quite a city here, with stately business blocks, and
wires a-running far and near, and handsome concrete walks. The trolley
cars go whizzing by, and smoke from noisy mills is trailing slowly to
the sky, and blotting out the hills. And thirty years ago I stood upon
this same old mound, with not a house of brick or wood for twenty miles
around! I'm mighty glad to be alive, to see the change you've made;
it's good to watch this human hive, and hear the hum of trade!

I list to the moans and wails
Of your town, with its toiling hands,
But O for the lonely trails
That led to the unknown lands!

[Illustration: The Old Timer]

I used to camp right where we stand, among these motor cars, and
silence brooded o'er the land, as I lay 'neath the stars, save when the
drowsy cattle lowed, or when a broncho neighed; and now you have an
asphalt road, and palaces of trade! We hear the clamor of the host on
every wind that blows, when people take the time to boast of how their
city grows! I do not doubt that you will rise to greater heights of
fame, and maybe paint across the skies your city's lustrous name!

I list to the ceaseless tramp
Of the host, with its hopes and fears;
But O for the midnight camp
And the sound of the milling steers!

THE BRIGHT FACE

Things are moving slowly? Business seems unholy? Better things are
coming, though they seem delayed! Sitting down and scowling, standing
up and growling, fussing round complaining will not bring the trade!
Here comes Mr. Perkins for a