Tinkle-chink! THREE HA'PENCE! If the vulgar fractions followed, Big fleas have little fleas! It flashed upon me there,-- Like the snakes of Pharaoh which the snakes of Moses swallowed All the world was playing at the tortoise and the hare: Half the smallest atom is--my soul was getting tipsy-- Heaven is one big circle and the centre's everywhere, Yus, and that old woman was an angel and a gipsy, Yus, and Bill, the chicken-thief, the corn-flower millionaire, Shamming not to care, What was he? A seraph on the misty rainbow-stair! XVI Don't you make no doubt of it! The deeper that you look, sir, All your ancient poets tell you just the same as me,-- What about old Ovid and his most indecent book, sir, Morphosizing females into flower and star and tree? What about old Proteus and his 'ighly curious 'abits, Mixing of his old grey beard into the old grey sea? What about old Darwin and the hat that brought forth rabbits, Mud and slime that growed into the pomp of Ninevey? What if there should be One great Power beneath it all, one God in you and me? XVII Anyway, it seemed to me I'd struck the world's pump-handle! "Back with that three ha'pence, Bill," I mutters, "or you're lost." Back I hurries thro' the dusk where, shining like a candle, Pale before the sunset stood that fairy finger-post. _Sir, she wasn't there!_ I'd struck the place where all roads crost, All the roads in all the world. She couldn't yet have trotted Even to the ... Hist! a stealthy step behind? A ghost? _Swish_! A flying noose had caught me round the neck! Garotted! Back I staggered, clutching at the moonbeams, yus, almost Throttled! Sir, I boast Bill is tough, but ... when it comes to throttling by a ghost! * * * * XVIII Winged like a butterfly, tall and slender Out It steps with the rope on its arm. "Crumbs," I says, "all right! I surrender! When have I crossed you or done you harm? _Ef_ you're a sperrit," I says, "O, crikey, _Ef_ you're a sperrit, get hence, vamoose!" Sweet as music, she spoke--"I'm Psyche!"-- Choking me still with her silken noose. XIX Straight at the word from the ferns and blossoms Fretting the moon-rise over the downs, Little blue wings and little white bosoms, Little white faces with golden crowns Peeped, and the colours came twinkling round me, Laughed, and the turf grew purple with thyme, Danced, and the sweet crushed scents nigh drowned me, Sang, and the hare-bells rang in chime. XX