Vill 
THE TREASURE-HUNT 
J HAVE always been of a very treasurous disposi- 
tion. Such terms as ingots, doubloons, and pieces-of- 
eight all my life long have been to me words of power. 
In spite of these tendencies, I cannot say that up 
to date I have unearthed much treasure. To be sure, 
there was that day when I found a shiny quarter 
in the mud on my way to school. Instead of being 
the out-cropping of a lode of currency, it turned out, 
however, to be only a sporadic, solitary, companion- 
less coin. Even so, it was no mean find. I remember 
that it brought into my young life a full pound of 
peppermint lozenges tastefully decorated in red ink, 
with mottos of simple diction and exquisite senti- 
ment. ‘“‘Remember me,” and “‘I love but dare not 
tell,”” were two of them, while another was a manly 
query unanswered across the years which read, 
“How about a kiss?” Although this treasure-trove 
gained me a fleeting popularity, yet, like all treasure, 
it was soon gone. A prosaic teacher confiscated the 
bulk of the hoard, and all I gained from it was the 
privilege of learning by heart a poem of the late Mr. 
Longfellow. To this day those beautiful lines, — 
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining, 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining,— 
cause in me a slight sensation of nausea. 
