Part 19 (2/2)
”Here is your first guest, then,” said Paul, as he accepted the seat June offered him. ”I present him to you with my sincere wish that every birthday may be as bright as this your seventeenth.”
”Thank you, Paul! Many thanks for so lovely a present,” June said, as she lifted the bright cage containing a parrot, which Paul offered her.
”What is your name, sir?” she asked.
”Bob!” croaked the bird. ”Pretty Bob.”
”I shall cherish him in remembrance of you, Paul,” said June, ”and how nice he will be to amuse poor Papa. He is obliged to keep his room so much of late.”
”Is he no better to-day?” Scott asked, with an anxious look.
”Yes, much better, and is out riding with mama.”
”Sit down here, little one,” Scott said, drawing a chair near his own.
”I have brought you a little present to start the day with. I wish you to look at it.”
June seated herself by Scott and took from his hand a beautifully bound book of poems.
”It is by some new author--at least new to me; but it is a beautiful poem. I took the liberty to read it before presenting it to you.”
”'A Gift from the Sea,'” said June, looking at the t.i.tle. ”I wonder----”
”What?”
”I was thinking that perhaps it might be Rene who wrote this.”
”I hardly think so,” said Scott, ”although she does considerable writing, I do not think she ever wrote that.”
”Why?”
”One reason is that I do not think she would ever have the patience.
This work is prepared with a great deal of care. I thought perhaps you might be interested, as well as to gain some valuable information from it, for there are some rare gems of thought contained in its pages.”
”I know I shall enjoy it,” said June.
”You will find, by careful perusal, that it is like a fine edifice, each stone of which is laid by a master workman. The inborn talent is the cornerstone, and each rock is carefully hewn and placed in its proper niche, making the foundation solid as well as beautiful.”
”Do you think, then,” Paul asked, ”that the poet who wrote that worked hard to construct it?”
”Poets are born, not made; but careful study and patience serve to smooth the rough edges, as the edges are natural to the unhewn marble.
The finest quality wears not its gla.s.sy surface until the sculptor's hand has chiselled and polished it to his will, and while the edifice may be beautiful to look upon for a time, without the solid foundation it may be broken by the first touch of the critic's hand. The poet who wrote that little book never did so without work, although he may have felt the inspiration of poetic zeal while he worked.”
”It is strange,” said June, ”that we have such different qualifications.
I can see great beauty in some poems, but I never could put the beauty there.”
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