4 Have You A Dream? be Bud! very old man, bent double, with flowing white beard and Phe acre) 2¥e8 stopped on the road on the other eile ny a Bhe garden wali and looked up at me as I sat perched on the branch of aL ychee tree— was a boy then, I don’t climb trees any more What's your dream?” he asked It was startling qu ‘estion coming from a raggedy old beggar on the street; even more startling that should have been made in English, English speaking be BGars were a rarity. Wy, What's your dream?” he repeated } don’t remember,” I said. “I don’t think I had a dream | last night. G That's not what I mean. You know it isn’t what I mean. I can see you're a dreamer. It’s not the Lychee season, but you sit in that tree all afternoon, dreaming.” Ijust like sitting here,” I said. I refused to admit that I was a dreamer. Other boys didn’t dream, they had catapults. A dream, my boy, is what you want most in life. Isn’t there something that you want more than anything else?” Yes,” I said promptly. “A room of my own.” Ah! A room of your own, a tree of your own, it’s the same thing. Not many people can have their own rooms, you know.” Just a small room.” ‘And what kind of a room do you live in now?”“It's a big room, but and even my have to share it with My brothers ang aunt when she visits” you really want is freedom. Your ‘Own tree, small place under the sun,” ou have all tha