acks of the
books. There were "The Pilgrim's Progress," and "Tappan on the Will."
Then came Shakespeare, a shilling edition of Keats, Drew's "Conic
Sections," Hall's "Differential Calculus," Baker's "Land Surveying,"
Carlyle's "Heroes," a fat volume of Shelley, "The Antiquary," White's
"Selborne," Bonnycastle's "Algebra," and five volumes of "The Tales of
the Borders."

"You have a capital lot of books, my man. I suppose you know them all by
heart, pretty well?"

"Yes, I know them; not by heart exactly, but I've had a lot of time
these two winters, and I've gone over them and written about them."

"Well, which do you like best of all?"

"My fancy's all for mathematics, but I like poetry."

"Ah! And I suppose you write poetry--don't you, now?"

He was not abashed--he said in an ordinary tone, "Very often. It doesn't
seem good, but I go on at it. It pleases me and puts away the time now
and then. There's some in that copy-book at your side."

I know what a fearful thing youthful poetry is, and I felt a discreet
dread. But I opened the book and saw that the young man had been writing
verses in a large strong hand. I did not read much. There was one pair
of broken quatrains which I remember:--

"Though toil is heavy I'll not be sad,
I'll rest content while my pulses beat;
If I work, and love, and trust and be glad,
Perchance the world will come to my feet.
But if no fortune ever be mine,
If my bones on this grey hill-side must lie,
As long as I breathe I'll not repine,
I've gladly lived and I'll gladly die."

"You're not very particular about the form of your verses," said I.

"No! I never count syllables. I only go by accents."

"Um! Well. I shall meet you again, and you shall come and see me."

All that winter I was secluded. Day after day broke with wild weather.
Sometimes the snow came and laid all the bracken under its gentle
coverlid. Sometimes the wind came in from the sea, and as the mad
squalls tore off the crests of the breakers, our cottage was smothered
with yellow foam. I liked to go along to the wooden hut and sit with my
young friend, although the tramp back in the chill darkness was not
always very safe. He used also to visit me, and I lent him books. He was
much taken with Burke, and would talk with a solemn enthusiasm when I
encouraged him to speak about the American war and the Revolution. He
began to try prose writing during this same winte