"It's time," said the Poet to the Man of Affairs.
The latter looked at his wrist apprehensively. "Plenty of time for one more," he rejoined, beckoning to the Boy.
"O yes, always time for that" agreed the Poet, "what I mean is—time to write about Spring."
"What, didn't you do that long ago, when you shivered in front of your grate and tried to vision bluebirds and daffodils so that the editors could get their spring poems in times?"
"No," said the Poet, "no artist could write like that. It's bad enough to write about spring in April and sell it for the next season; but I will not deliberately anticipate my raptures. Suppose there shouldn't be any spring. It looked as if there wasn't to be one this year. Then ai that rhyme would have been wasted."
"Just what is the procedure then?" queried that practical Man of Affairs.
"Well, as soon as you feel the spring coming on—sometimes it's a bird, or perfiaps the grogs turning
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.