The Dreamer A fair child sat beside his mother's knee, And dreamed great things of what he'd do and be. Some day his fellow-men should call him great, A leader in the nation and the state; Some day in history they should write his name With those who were already known to fame. While listening to his talk, the mother smiled, And whispered soft responses to the child. Years came and went. The child a youth became. But still his hopes and dreams remained the same As when he sat beside his mother's knee, A lisping child, and dreamed of what he'd be. His place was at the top, among the few Who have the high and lofty things to do. Thus he built up air castles to the sky While all around, his schoolmates passed him by. As time rolled on, the youth became a man, Still dreaming dreams, although he now began To wonder why they were not realized, Why others gained the fame he sought and prized. But suddenly from dreaming he awoke, For near his side it seemed a soft voice spoke: "Why waste in dreams the time God gives to you? Arise! Go forth and make your dreams come true ? And that was all. It was enough; the man Went forth to find his place in God's great plan Of busy life. At last he knew the way And reaped success by toiling day by day. So with us all, as on through life we go. 'Tis what we do; not what we think or know, That wins success in this great world of ours. The sharpest thorns surround the sweetest flowers. LEE PURRINGTON. '14 Horace Winters drew the covering over this masterpiece and left the studio. At last this picture was completed-this pic- ture, the dream, the work of years. To- morrow it would be placed in the exhibit. lie imagined even now that he heard the people, the artists, and the critics praising it, and above the murmur of their voices he seemed to hear, "How wonderful! How true to nature! What a picture! How no- ble and uplifting! And the artist-he is greatly blessed by the Creator." "Blessed!" That word brought him out of his reverie. "That is just the word they will use," he thought bitterly as he entered the room. He caught sight of his haggard face in the mirror-it was worn and pale from overwork and insufficient rest. "Blessed?" he repeated, "It is not bless- ing that has painted this picture; it is work and sacrifice." Impatiently he paced the floor, thinking of the morrow. He crossed the room and threw open the western window. The glowing embers of the closing day were beginning to burn out. The last crimson bar in the west was slowly fading into the mysterious gray which mantles the world in the hour of peace. Somehow the scene did not appeal to Morace tonight and tired and weary he threw himself on the bed to rest. Still the thoughts of his picture haunted him. "They will praise the picture and the Creator who has so blessed the painter, but the praise belongs to me. 1 have sacrificed home, parents, love-everything for my ambition. It is not blessing, it is work-perseverance has made me a creator." These were his reflections as he fell asleep. When he awoke it seemed that he was being strangled. He could not breathe. What was this choking sensation? The truth dawned upon him. It was smoke. The building was on fire! He rushed to the door, but it was not the thought of reaching personal safety that possessed him-he remembered that his studio was on the floor below and that his picture was there. He rushed down the stairs maddened by the thought that his work might be destroyed. His progress was stopped by a wall of flame. He was too late. For weeks and months after the fire Morace was melancholy. He