We were all gathered in the workshop after dinner, Geoffrey, Ernie, and myself, wrapped in golf-cloaks and overcoats, disputing about our favourite apostles, when Haze, who had been rather subdued and “broodful” the greater part of the day, entered the room. He had a notebook under his arm. “Going to study, Hazey?” I asked him, for he intends to keep up his Latin, and mother has promised to help. “No,” he answered, with really appalling solemnity. “I have written my first Poem.” “Your first What?” roars Geof. “Poem,” admitted Haze, blushing a bit. “My hat!” murmurs Geof. “This is so sudden! But go on, old chap. Let’s have it,—don’t mind me.” “If you treat the matter with respect,” says Haze, suddenly on his dignity, “I’ll read it to you. Otherwise I won’t.” “Fire ahead,” urged Geoffrey, who was simply on the _qui vive_ to hear. “We’re as respectful as you please. We’ll listen, and then criticise.” “No larks, mind,” warned Hazard. “According to my own ideas this is the real stuff.” And, as we settled ourselves to attention in the flying-machine, he began, in what I can only call an “uplifted” sort of voice,— THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD. The young man faces the stern, cold world,— “Oyster!” he says, “O oyster!——” There was an hysterical gurgle from Geof, and a fierce “Keep quiet, can’t you!” from Ernestine. “I’ve told you,” says Hazard, interrupting himself to look severely over his glasses, “that it is perfectly indifferent to me whether you hear this thing or not. I don’t care a hang for your literary opinions,—and I’ll not be guyed about it.” “Go on,” pleaded Geoffrey, with a watery, sidelong look at me. “Who’s guying you?” So Haze began afresh,— THE YOUNG MAN AND THE WORLD. The young man faces the stern, cold world,— “Oyster!” he says, “O oyster! Open thy shell, and show me thy pearl, Like the hidden wealth of a cloister.” The cold world answers never a word. The youth is bound, if he can, To take up his pickaxe and work for himself, Till he prove that he _is_ a man! “Ho! ho!” exploded Geof, unable to restrain himself a moment longer. “Pickaxe is good! That’s the way to get after ’em! Bully for you, old boy!” “What do you think, Elizabeth?” says Hazard, haughtily ignoring this demonstration, and turning somewhat coldly to me. “I’m not sure that you could say hidden wealth of a ‘cloister,’” I answered. “Somehow it doesn’t sound exactly historical.” “_‘Oyster!’ he says, ‘O oyster!’_” murmured Geof. Whereat Ernie, who had controlled herself beautifully up to that moment, gave vent to one enthusiastic whoop, and disappeared backward into the flying-machine.