My hump is gone; in three months I shall be
gone. Forward: I smell bacon!"
Margaret smiled the wan smile of an invalid watching vigorous youth at
sport. Firmly she banged the shuttlecock out of sight.
"How bright you are!" she told him. "Look, here is a little poem I
wrote for you last night. It's about failure and success. Don't read
it now."
George was very fond of his cousin. "Oh, but I must!" he cried. "I
think this was awfully nice of you. He's not down yet. Let's sit on
this seat and read it together."
"Oh, not aloud. It's a silly little thing--really."
"Yes--aloud."
He smoothed the paper. She pressed against him; thrilled as she
regarded the written lines. George begged her read. She would not--
well, she would. She paused. Modesty and pride gathered on her cheeks,
tuned her voice low. She read:
"So you have tried--So you have known
The burning effort for success,
The quick belief in your own prowess and your skill,
The bitterness of failure, and the joy
Of sweet success."
"'Burning effort,'" George said. "That's fine!"
"I'm glad you like that. And 'quick belief'--you know what I mean?"
"Oh, rather."
The poet warmed again over her words.
"So you have tried--
So you have known
The blind-eyed groping towards the goal
That flickers on the far horizon of Attempt,
Gleaming to sudden vividness, anon
Fading from sight.
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