seldom. that poetry finds ts way, Lolo sw. screeds of mine, as, Feary, am not fond oft, bat fines Thich cams ma war ding the holt fay, wei ten i this New Years Day een io vg ames, which specially worth-who he present stare: tore they sit:
He who has eyes, and looks around At bounteous Nature's sore, What matter though he beguured be? A monarch sees no more.
The glint of the sunbeam ox the wave, The foaming torrent's flood; The star-encrusted bowl of night, Where the wandering Moon sheds her pale cold light Through the trackless vault of!
Space: "These are the joys of every man, (Of Emperor and slave.
The play of the light on a bird'
bright wing, An Abbey's mellowed calm, The first faint flush of the rising]
Or the crimson plow when his race run, And the West is " poot of blood: These are the joys of every man, fon Fountains Abbey, but the judges fat the time had no idea of the youth of the writer, He is only 17 now, [and for the past twelve years has at= tended High Harrogate College, England but 1s at present on a visit to his parents.
So far as his original writings are concerned, those are quite untutored, fas his Hesdmaster deemed it wiser to Tet the boy "have his head," so to speak, and to remain uncramped by Interference of any sort fe hope he will keep his fresh, simple ideals, for if s0, he will have within himssi¢ the secret of a really [happy life. It is not his parents" intention that he stay out here, and he will later leave for home to pursue his University and business career.
Tet us hope that, even in. grim Shanghai, some of us will be able in the [coming gear to achieve howe which our young poet declares are better than "coin, and, lacking material backing, will find some com= fort in that wealth which ly al around.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.