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 find my eyes full of tears. I feel as if I had bet to some wonderful place, and I don’t want to con back.

“I guess I’m not like other fellows. I cry ov< poetry, not because it makes me sad. It’s not tha It’s just so beautiful. Why, when I first read She ley’s ‘Cloud’ I was almost sick I was so happy, could hardly stand it. And when I hear beautifi music I cry, too. Why, when I listen to Kreisle I sometimes want to beg him to stop; it hurts ar makes me so happy that—that I just can’t star it,” he finished lamely.

“I know,” Hugh said. “I know how it is. feel that way sometimes, too* but not as much you, I guess. I don’t cry. I never really cry, b I want to once in a while. I—I write poetry som times,” he confessed awkwardly, “but I guess it not very good. Jimmie Henley says it is n’t so b; for a sophomore, but I’m afraid that he’s ju stringing me along, trying to encourage me, y< know. But there are times when I ’ve said a litt bit right, just a little bit, but I’ve known that it w right—and then I feel the way you do.”

“I’ve written lots of poetry,” Norry said sii ply, “but it’s no good; it’s never any good.” I paused between two big trees and pointed upwar “Look, look up there. See those black branch and that patch of sky between them and the stars. I want to picture that—and I can’t; anc