This was a new view to Mr. McCunn. "I just once knew a paper-maker," he observed reflectively. "They called him Tosh. He drank a bit." "Well, I don't drink," said the other. "I'm a paper-maker, but that's for my bread and butter. Some day for my own sake I may be a poet." "Have you published anything?" The eager admiration in Dickson's tone gratified Mr. Heritage. He drew from his pocket a slim book. "My firstfruits," he said, rather shyly. Dickson received it with reverence. It was a small volume in grey paper boards with a white label on the back, and it was lettered: "_Whorls--John Heritage's Book_." He turned the pages and read a little. "It's a nice wee book," he observed at length. "Good God, if you call it nice, I must have failed pretty badly," was the irritated answer. Dickson read more deeply and was puzzled. It seemed worse than the worst of Browning to understand. He found one poem about a garden entitled "Revue." "Crimson and resonant clangs the dawn," said the poet. Then he went on to describe noonday: "Sunflowers, tall Grenadiers, ogle the roses' short-skirted ballet. The fumes of dark sweet wine hidden in frail petals Madden the drunkard bees." This seemed to him an odd way to look at things, and he boggled over a phrase about an "epicene lily." Then came evening: "The painted gauze of the stars flutters in a fold of twilight crape," sang Mr. Heritage; and again, "The moon's pale leprosy sloughs the fields." Dickson turned to other verses which apparently enshrined the writer's memory of the trenches. They were largely compounded of oaths, and rather horrible, lingering lovingly over sights and smells which every one is aware of, but most people contrive to forget. He did not like them. Finally he skimmed a poem about a lady who turned into a bird. The evolution was described with intimate anatomical details which scared the honest reader. He kept his eyes on the book for he did not know what to say. The trick seemed to be to describe nature in metaphors mostly drawn from music-halls and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss, to fall to cursing. He thought it frankly very bad, and he laboured to find words which would combine politeness and honesty. "Well?" said the poet. "There's a lot of fine things here, but--but the lines don't just seem to scan very well."