f lying in pawn, perhaps for
the remainder of my days, in San Francisco. As usual, my colds have much
hashed my finances.

Do tell Henley I write this just after having dismissed Ori the
sub-chief, in whose house I live, Mrs. Ori, and Pairai, their adopted
child, from the evening hour of music: during which I Publickly (with a
k) Blow on the Flageolet. These are words of truth. Yesterday I told Ori
about W. E. H., counterfeited his playing on the piano and the pipe, and
succeeded in sending the six feet four there is of that sub-chief
somewhat sadly to his bed; feeling that his was not the genuine article
after all. Ori is exactly like a colonel in the Guards.--I am, dear
Charles, ever yours affectionately,

R. L. S.

TO CHARLES BAXTER

The stanzas which end this letter are well known, having been
printed, with one additional, in _Songs of Travel_; but they gain
effect, I think, from being given here in their place.

_Tautira, 10th November '88._

MY DEAR CHARLES,--Our mainmast is dry-rotten, and we are all to the
devil; I shall lie in a debtor's jail. Never mind, Tautira is first
chop. I am so besotted that I shall put on the back of this my attempt
at words to Wandering Willie; if you can conceive at all the difficulty,
you will also conceive the vanity with which I regard any kind of
result; and whatever mine is like, it has some sense, and Burns's has
none.

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;
Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree;
The true word of welcome was spoken in the door--
Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,
Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.
Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;
Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.
Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,
Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

R. L. S.

TO JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS

The following is the draft of a proposed dedication to the South Sea
travel-book which was to be the fruit of the present voy