Harlan rummaged through the cellar and found a bottle of Uncle Ebeneezer’s old port, which, for some occult reason, had hitherto escaped. Mrs. Smithers, moved to joyful song, did herself proud in the matter of fried chicken and flaky biscuit. Dorothy had taken all the leaves out of the table, so that now it was cosily set for four, and placed a battered old brass candlestick, with a tallow candle in it, in the centre.

“Seems like living, doesn’t it?” asked Harlan. Until now, he had not known how surely though secretly distressed he had been by Aunt Rebecca’s persistent kin. Claudius Tiberius apparently felt the prevailing cheerfulness, and purred vigorously, in Elaine’s lap.

Afterward, they made a fire in the parlour, even though the night was so warm that they were obliged to have all the windows open, and, inspired by the portrait of Uncle Ebeneezer, discussed the peculiarities of his self-invited guests.

The sacrificial flame arising from the poet’s bed directed the conversation to Mr. Perkins and his gift of song. Dick, though feeling more deeply upon the subject than any of the rest, was wise enough not to say too much.

“I found something under his mattress,” remarked Dick, when the conversation flagged, “while I was taking his blooming crib apart to chop it up. I guess it must be a poem.”

He drew a sorely flattened roll from his pocket, and slipped off the crumpled blue ribbon. It was, indeed, a poem, entitled “Farewell.”

“I thought he might have been polite enough to say good bye,” said Dorothy. “Perhaps it was easier to write it.”

“Read it,” cried Elaine, her eyes dancing. “Please do!”

So Dick read as follows:

All happy times must reach an end Sometime, someday, somewhere, A great soul seldom has a friend Anyway or anywhere. But one devoted to the Ideal Must pass these things all by, His eyes fixed ever on his Art, Which lives, though he must die.
Amid the tide of cruel greed Which laps upon our shore, No one takes thought of the poet’s need Nor how his griefs may pour Upon his poor, devoted head And his sad, troubled heart; But all these things each one must take, Who gives his life to Art.
His crust of bread, his tick of straw His enemies deny, And at the last his patron saint Will even pass him by; The wide world is his resting place, All o’er it he may roam, And none will take the poet in, Or offer him a home.
The tears of sorrow blind him now, Misunderstood is he, But thus great souls have always been, And always they will be; His eyes fixed ever on the Ideal Will be there till he die, To-night he goes, but leaves a poem To say good bye, good bye!