different, but there was something about it identical with his "On Linden when the sun was low." "Alone I walked, I walked alone," he stressed. "I sat upon a mossy stone," he followed swiftly. What fun! That was like real poetry. He repeated the words, trembling with delight. _Alone I walked, I walked alone. I sat upon a mossy stone._ What about that bird? We must introduce that bird! "I heard a bird singing up in the sky." No, that wouldn't do! Something was wrong! Gosh! it was very easy! Just leave out that "singing," thus: "I heard a bird up in the sky." But we can't end there! "I heard a bird up in the sky," and ... and ... "He sang so sweet and so did I!" His thighs trembled. His heart stormed. He had beaten down the walls of _chayder_; he was away beyond somewhere; he was elected into the fellowship of poetry; what did Miss Tibbet matter for ever and ever? Again, again ... how did it go? ... lest he should lose it! Listen! Ah, the surge the fullness of it! Alone I walked, I walked alone, I sat upon a mossy stone. I heard a bird up in the sky. He sang so sweet and so did I! Green fields stretching away, trees, stones with soft moss, a bird, a bird! "Feivel, where holds one?" Sickeningly, with the click of a trap, the walls of _chayder_ shut to about him. An ecstasy was in his eyes. A mist of stupidity, helplessness, obscured their light. Oh, no! oh, no! he would make no pretence about it. He'd not been listening, he'd been away, singing! ... What did it matter? Let the fist come down on his aching back! Let the muscles of his arm be pinched and wrenched again. Listen, oh listen! _I heard a bird up in the sky. He sang so sweet and so did I._ He lifted his wide eyes to his father. In an even voice he said, "_Tatte_, I've not been listening!" A thrill of subdued expectance went round the _chayder_. His enemies rubbed their grubby hands gleefully. One or two looked anxious. But there was no explosion. In the same even tones Reb Monash said, "_Nu_, and what hast thou been doing?" Slowly Philip's sallow face flushed a deep crimson. Must he tell? Must he stand there stripped of this new garment which had covered him, fragrant with spices and touched with the colours of a new dawn? But it was the voice not of his own free lips, the voice ordered by some blind, strong dictate of the heart, that said, "I was writing a poetry!"