There was a breath of freer air--humanity lay behind them--they were alone with Nature on the vast, dim sea. The numbness crept to the roots of his being. He had no hands to lift; he had no feet to move. His heart grew sluggish: there was a numbness in his brain. Death stood upright now in the bow before him: and in the east he was aware of a widening breadth of grey. Would the blackness freshen into perfect day for him . . . or would the night lie hopelessly on him for ever? . . . The figure drew near--and laid its hand across his eyes. . . . * * * * * "Thrown out of the hansom, and the wheels went over him, sir. He was dead in less than five minutes, I should think." "Cover his face . . . and break it gently to his wife." THE MAN WHO COULD TALK WITH THE BIRDS. A TALE TOLD BY THE FIRESIDE. WANCE upon a time there was a youngster in Zennor who was all'ys geekin'[B] into matters that warn't no use in the world. Some do say 'a was cliver, too, weth it all, an' cut out that there mermaid in the church[C] what the folks do come from miles round to see. Anyway, 'a warn't like 'es brawthers an' sesters, an' 'es folks dedn' knaw what to maake of un, like. Well, wan day when 'a was wand'rin' about, down to Nancledrea or some such plaace, 'a got 'mong lots o' trees an' bushes an' heerd the cuckoos callin' to ayche awther, an' awther kinds o' birds what was singin' or talkin,' an' all as knawin' as humans, like. So no rest now cud 'a git, poor chuckle-head! for wantin' to larn to spayke weth they. Well, it warn't long arter that 'a was geekin' as usual round some owld ruined crellas[D] up to Choon, when 'a seed a man weth a long white beard settin' on wan o' the burrows[E] on the hill that are 'longside that owld Quoit[F] up there. 'A was a bowldish piece o' goods, was the youngster, simmin'ly, for 'a dedn' mind the stranyer a dinyun,[G] though 'a _was_ like an owld black witch,[H] they do say. Anyhow, the two beginned jawin' together, soon got thick as Todgy an' Tom. An' by-an'-by the stranyer wormed out of un how 'a was all'ys troubled in 'es mind 'cause 'a cudn' onderstaand what the birds was sayin'. "I'd give anything in the world," says the bucca-davy,[I] "ef I cud onnly larn to spayke weth they." "Aw, es it so, me dear," said the stranyer: "well, I'll tayche'ee to talk to they, sure 'nuff, ef thee'll come up to that owld Quoit weth me." "What must I pay'ee?" axed the youngster, bowld-like. For he'd heerd o' cureyus bargains o' this kind, an' 'a dedn' want to risk 'es sawl. "Nawthin'! Nawthin', me dear!" said the stranyer. "I shall git paid for't in a way o' me awn." Well, the end of it was, accordin' to the story, that the youngster 'greed to go 'long weth un: so up the two of 'em went to the Quoit.