'No; you sowed seed,' said Dr. Shrapnel. 'Heed not that girl, my
Beauchamp. The old woman's in the Tory, and the Tory leads the young
maid. Here's a fable I draw from a Naturalist's book, and we'll set it
against the dicta of Jenny Do-nothing, Jenny Discretion, Jenny
Wait-for-the-Gods: Once upon a time in a tropical island a man lay sick;
so ill that he could not rise to trouble his neighbours for help; so weak
that it was lifting a mountain to get up from his bed; so hopeless of
succour that the last spark of distraught wisdom perching on his brains
advised him to lie where he was and trouble not himself, since peace at
least he could command, before he passed upon the black highroad men call
our kingdom of peace: ay, he lay there. Now it chanced that this man had
a mess to cook for his nourishment. And life said, Do it, and death said,
To what end? He wrestled with the stark limbs of death, and cooked the
mess; and that done he had no strength remaining to him to consume it,
but crept to his bed like the toad into winter. Now, meanwhile a steam
arose from the mess, and he lay stretched. So it befel that the birds of
prey of the region scented the mess, and they descended and thronged at
that man's windows. And the man's neighbours looked up at them, for it
was the sign of one who is fit for the beaks of birds, lying unburied.
Fail to spread the pall one hour where suns are decisive, and the pall
comes down out of heaven! They said, The man is dead within. And they
went to his room, and saw him and succoured him. They lifted him out of
death by the last uncut thread.

'Now, my Jenny Weigh-words, Jenny Halt-there! was it they who saved the
man, or he that saved himself? The man taxed his expiring breath to sow
seed of life. Lydiard shall put it into verse for a fable in song for our
people. I say it is a good fable, and sung spiritedly may serve for
nourishment, and faith in work, to many of our poor fainting fellows! Now
you?'

Jenny said: 'I think it is a good fable of self-help. Does it quite
illustrate the case? I mean, the virtue of impatience. But I like the
fable and the moral; and I think it would do good if it were made
popular, though it would be hard to condense it to a song.'

'It would be hard! ay, then we do it forthwith. And you shall compose the
music. As for the "case of impatience," my dear, you tether the soaring
universal to your pet-lamb's post, the special. I spoke of seed sown. I
spoke of th