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 I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to criticise—that is to say, praise—the poem sufficiently to please Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favourite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read:—

The day is most fair, the cheery wind Halloos behind the hill, Where he bends the wood as seemeth good, And the sapling to his will! Riot, O wind; there is that in my blood That would not have thee still!

She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky; Gray sea, she is mine alone! Let the sullen boulders hear my cry, And rejoice tho' they be but stone!

Mine! I have won her, O good brown earth, Make merry! 'Tis hard on Spring; Make merry; my love is doubly worth All worship your fields can bring! Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth At the early harrowing!'

'Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt,' I said, with a dread at my heart. Charlie smiled, but did not answer.

Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad: I am victor. Greet me, O Sun, Dominant master and absolute lord Over the soul of one!'

'Well?' said Charlie, looking over my shoulder.

1 thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a photograph on the paper—the