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HERE the bright lances of the sunlight quiver,
 * Where the green shadows thickest fall and float,

Under the trees that fringe the quiet river
 * Dolly and I together in a boat.

I in the stern, composed and nearly napping
 * Over Lord Bacon propped against my knees,

Lulled by the lazy water's liquid lapping,
 * Calmed into cool contentment by the breeze.

She in the bow, with eager pencil scribbling,
 * Frowns on her brow—much reference to a book;

There floats her line, the little fishes nibbling
 * Round the limp bait on her forgotten hook.

"Are you at work?" "A teasing composition."
 * (Well, there are ills which age shall feel no more!)

"It's for a prize, but I've not much ambition—"
 * (Dolly's fifteen and I am thirty-four.)

"What is the subject?" "Truth." A pause. We waited.
 * I looked amused and Dolly seemed perplexed.

Truth—by a schoolgirl pen elucidated.
 * Shade of Lord Bacon! What shall we have next?

"I have an essay here," I made petition,
 * "Written by one whom men accounted wise,

On the same subject as your composition—
 * Though I recall no mention of a prize.

"Well, shall I read it?" Dolly's looks were pleading.
 * Bacon was barred before a word was said.

"Must we improve these pleasant hours by reading?
 * Tell me a story—" coaxingly—"instead."

"Students of Truth, who much prefer a story,
 * Cannot expect the praise of fellow-man;

Not yours the prize," said I, "not yours the glory."
 * She laughed defiance, and I thus began:

Long, long ago—the years need not be numbered—
 * Far in the East, where learning brings reward,

Once, on a night, the King Darius slumbered,
 * Watched by three youthful captains of his guard.