And still I seek, as still I roam,
A snug roof overhead;
Four walls, my own; a quiet home.…
“You’ll have it–when you're dead.”
MacBean is one of Bohemia’s victims. It is a country of the young. The old have no place in it. He will gradually lose his grip, go down and down. I am sorry. He is my nearest approach to a friend. I do not make them easily. I have deep reserves. I like solitude. I am never so surrounded by boon companions as when I am all alone.
But though I am a solitary I realize the beauty of friendship, and on looking through my note-book I find the following:
IF YOU HAD A FRIEND
If you had a friend strong, simple, true,
Who knew your faults and who understood;
Who believed in the very best of you,
And who cared for you as a father would;
Who would stick by you to the very end,
Who would smile however the world might frown:
I’m sure you would try to please your friend,
You never would think to throw him down.
And supposing your friend was high and great,
And he lived in a palace rich and tall,
And sat like a King in shining state.
And his praise was loud on the lips of all;
Well then, when he turned to you alone,
And he singled you out from all the crowd,
