The Annual, a book published by the seniors each spring, now advertised a prize for the best poem submitted by any student ... a prize of twenty-five dollars. I had no doubt but that the prize was mine already. Not that I had become as yet the poet I desired, but that the average level of human endeavour in any art is so low that I knew my assiduity and application and fair amount of inspiration would win.
I wrote my poem—A Day in a Japanese Garden, ... only two lines I remember:
"And black cranes trailed their long legs as they flew
Down to it, somewhere out of Heaven's blue,"
descriptive of a little lake ... oh, yes, and two more I remember, descriptive of sunset:
"And Fujiyama's far and sacred top
Became a jewel shining in the sun."
The poem was an over-laquered, metaphor-cloyed thing ... much like the bulk of our free verse of to-day ... but it was superior to all the rest of the contributions.
The prize was declared off. After an evening's serious discussion the committee decided that, though my effort was far and away the best, it would not do to let me have the prize, because I was so wild-appearing ... because I was known as having been a tramp. And because seniors and students of correct standing at the university had tried. And it would not be good for the school morale to let me have what I had won.
They compromised by declaring the prize off.