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We sped on now steadily, day by delightful day, and ever arose in s that had escaped ain, I took from my pocket the

little voluled,

and which I confess sometimes charht read old Oht,

with L'Olonnois at the masthead and Lafitte at the wheel And always

these wise, reckless, joyous pages of the old philosopher spelled to

me "Haste! Haste!"

"Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,

Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,

The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop

The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one"

"Coar:

The Bird of Time has but a little way

To flutter--and the Bird is on the Wing!"

What truth, what absolute truth of the red-hot spur lay in those

words, lesson direst toin books

to learn to keep by forms of law the booty my father had stolen? Away

with it, then, for now the Bird of Tiet

the wasted years, spent in adding dollar to dollar; for what could the

highest pile of dollars mean to a man who had missed what Lafitte and

L'Olonnois and O? The booty of the world, the