Then, you ask, what was this old English poetry like? Even if the syllables were not counted and there was no rhyme, it had accents just as our modern poetry has. Every line was divided into half verses by a pause, as, for example: Warriors of winters young with words spake. There are two accented syllables in the first half of this line, and one in the second. And now, instead of rhyme, what do you think the old English poetry had? Alliteration. That is a big word, but it is not nearly so difficult as it seems, for it means simply the repetition of the same letter at the beginning of two or more words. Here it is, the letter "w" that is repeated. It was poetry with alliteration and stress which little Finan heard on that night so long ago when the angel came to Cædmon and commanded him to sing. V THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE After Cædmon's day there were more and more religious poets. Very often the men who wrote the poetry and prose during the time of Cædmon and of Cuthbert lived in monasteries, where the life was a religious life. In the Great Palace of English Literature there is a pretty story told about Ealdhelm, who was a young man when Cædmon died. This young man later became the Abbot of Malmesbury. He was not only a religious poet, but he also made songs and could sing them to music. He traveled from town to town, and, finding that the men at the fairs did not come to church as they should, he would stand on the bridge and sing songs to them in the English tongue, persuading them thus to come to hear the word of God. Living at this same time--that is, during the latter half of the seventh century--was St. Cuthbert, not so great a scholar as Ealdhelm, but as great a wanderer. * * * * * There is a little valley between England and Scotland called Lauderdale--a little valley watered by a river which flows into the Tweed. There Cuthbert did not keep the flocks of his father as did David, yet, like David, he was a warrior lad. Day and night Cuthbert lived in the open, shepherding the sheep of many masters. There was not among the lads of that time a boy more active, more daring than Cuthbert. He could walk on his hands, turn somersaults, fight boldly, and become a victor in almost every race. There was no other boy so active but that Cuthbert was better at games and sports. And when all the others were tired he would ask whether there was not some one who could go on playing. Then suddenly a swelling came on his knee and the poor little boy could play no longer, and had to be carried in and out, up and down, by attendants. This continued until one day a horseman, clothed in white garments and riding a horse of incomparable beauty, appeared before the sick boy and cured his knee. Little Cuthbert was now able to walk about once more, but never again did he play the games he used to play.