"It is early for a visit," Paul Colbert said, in a tone of apology; "but I couldn't come at all to-day, unless I stopped now in passing." "Oh, no!" said Ruth, quickly. "It isn't very early." "And then I thought you might like to see this," he said. Rising, he stepped to her side, and gave her a sheet of paper torn from his note-book and covered with writing. He did not return to the chair which he had arisen from, but took another much nearer her own. "Poetry!" she said. "Is it something that you have written?" He smiled. "I have merely copied it. I saw the poem for the first time an hour or so ago at Mr. Audubon's. It is new and has never been printed. It was written by the young English poet, John Keats, to his brother George Keats, who is a partner of Mr. Audubon in the mill on the river. Mr. Keats and his wife are here now, the guests of Mr. Audubon. The poem came in a letter which has just been received. I have copied a part of it, and a few words from the letter, also. Mr. George Keats was kind enough to allow me, and I thought you would like to see them. I hadn't time to copy the entire poem, though it isn't very long." "It was very kind," said Ruth. "I am so glad to see it. May I read it now? This is what the letter says," reading it aloud, so that David also might hear. "If I had a prayer to make for any great good ... it should be that one of your children should be the first American poet?" "The first English hand across the sea!" said Paul Colbert. Ruth read on from this letter of John Keats to his brother: "I have a mind to make a prophecy. They say that prophecies work out their own fulfilment." And then she read as much of "A Prophecy" as the doctor had copied. * * * * * "Though, the rushes that will make Its cradle are by the lake-- Though the linen that will be Its swathe is on the cotton tree-- Though the woollen that will keep It warm is on the silly sheep-- Listen, starlight, listen, listen, Glisten, glisten, glisten, glisten, And hear my lullaby! Child, I see thee! Child, I've found thee! Midst the quiet all around thee! Child, I see thee! Child, I spy thee! And thy mother sweet is nigh thee. Child, I know thee! Child no more, But a poet ever-more! See, see, the lyre, the lyre! In a flame of fire Upon the little cradle's top Flaring, flaring, flaring, Past the eyesight's bearing. Wake it from its sleep, And see if it can keep Its eyes upon the blaze-- Amaze, amaze! It stares, it stares, it stares, It dares what none dares! It lifts its little hand into the flame Unharmed and on the strings Paddles a little tune and sings, With dumb endeavor sweetly-- Bard thou art completely; Little child, O' the western wild...." Ruth looked at Paul with shining eyes. "I thank you again for thinking that I would like this," she said.