It must have been soon after this that your brother died: truly, dearest, from now, and strangely, this Johnnie Kigarrow will seem more to me than him; touching a more heroic strain of idea, and stiffening fibers in your nature that brotherhood, as a rule, has no bearing on. A short letter to-day, Beloved, because what goes with it is so long. This is the first time I have come before your eyes as anything but a letter-writer, and I am doubtful whether you will care to have so much all about yourself. Yet for that very reason think how much I loved doing it! I am jealous of those days before I knew you, and want to have all their wild-honey flavor for myself. Do remember more, and tell me! Dearest heart, it was to me you were coming through all your scampers and ramblings; no wonder, with that unknown good running parallel, that my childhood was a happy one. May long life bless you, Beloved! (_Inclosure._) My brother and I were down in Wales, And listened by night to the Welshman's tales; He was eleven and I was ten. We sat on the knees of the farmer's men After the whole day's work was done: And I was friends with the farmer's son. His hands were rough as his arms were strong, His mouth was merry and loud for song; Each night when set by the ingle-wall He was the merriest man of them all. I would catch at his beard and say All the things I had done in the day-- Tumbled bowlders over the force, Swum in the river and fired the gorse-- "Half the side of the hill!" quoth I:-- "Ah!" cried he, "and didn't you die?" "Chut!" said he, "but the squeak was narrow! Didn't you meet with Johnnie Kigarrow?" "No!" said I, "and who will he be? And what will be Johnnie Kigarrow to me?" The farmer's son said under his breath, "Johnnie Kigarrow may be your death Listen you here, and keep you still-- Johnnie Kigarrow bides under the hill; Twloch barrow stands over his head; He shallows the river to make his bed; Bowlders roll when he stirs a limb; And the gorse on the hills belongs to him! And if so be one fires his gorse, He's out of his bed, and he mounts his horse. Off he sets: with the first long stride He is halfway over the mountain side: With his second stride he has crossed the barrow, And he has you fast, has Johnnie Kigarrow!" Half I laughed and half I feared; I clutched and tugged at the strong man's beard, And bragged as brave as a boy could be-- "So? but, you see, he didn't catch me!" Fear caught hold of me: what had I done? High as the roof rose the farmer's son: How the sight of him froze my marrow! "I," he cried, "am Johnnie Kigarrow!"