Unfetter your soul, take a pencil,--the words will come." "Really?
Can you do that, Mr.Blaney?
Could you take a pencil, _now_,--and just write out your soul, and produce a poem ?" Patty was very much in earnest.

Sam Blaney looked at her, the eager pleading face urged him, the blue eyes dared a refusal, and the hovering smile seemed to doubt his ability to prove his own proposition.
"Of course I could!" he replied.

"With you for inspiration, I could write a poem that would throb and thrill with the eternal heart of the radiance of the soul's starshine." "Then do it," cried Patty; "I believe you, I thoroughly believe you, but I want to see it.

I want the poem for myself.

Give it to me." Slowly Blaney took a pencil and notebook from his pocket.