LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS

“And how comes it,” said

Some one to Mr. Hammond, “that, instead

Of the inventor's life you did not choose

The artist's?— since the world can better lose

A cutting-box or reaper than it can

A noble picture painted by a man

Endowed with gifts this drawing would suggest” —

Holding the picture up to show the rest.

“There now!” chimed in the wife, her pale face lit

Like winter snow with sunrise over it,—

“That's what I'm always asking him.— But he —

Well, as he's answering you, he answers me,—

With that same silent, suffocating smile

He's wearing now!”

For quite a little while

No further speech from anyone, although

All looked at Mr. Hammond and that slow,

Immutable, mild smile of his. And then

The encouraged querist asked him yet again

Why was it, and etcetera — with all

The rest, expectant, waiting‘ round the wall,—

Until the gentle Mr. Hammond said

He'd answer with a “parable,” instead —

About “a dreamer” that he used to know —

“An artist” — “master” — all — in embryo.