"'Ardly that, young sir, 'ardly that!" said he, rubbing his chin with the shaft of his hammer. "No, 'ardly a poet, p'raps,--but thereabouts. My verses rhyme an' go wi' a swing, which is summat, arter all, ain't it? I made the song I was a-singing so blithe an' 'earty--did ye like it?" "Indeed, yes." "No, but did ye though?" he questioned wistfully, slanting his head at me. "Honest an' true?" "Honest and true!" At this, his bright eyes danced and a smile curved his grim lips; setting by hammer and kettle, he rose and disappeared into the small dingy tent behind him, whence he presently emerged bearing a large case-bottle, which he uncorked and proffered to me. "Rum!" said he, nodding. "Any cove as likes verses, 'specially my verses, is a friend--so drink hearty, friend, to our better acquaintance." "Thank you, but I never drink!" "Lord!" he exclaimed, and stood bottle in hand, like one quite at a loss; whereupon, perceiving his embarrassment, I took the bottle and swallowed a gulp for good-fellowship's sake and straightway gasped. "Why, 'tis a bit strong," quoth he, "but for the concocting, or, as you might say, com-posing o' verses there's nothing like a drop o' rum, absorbed moderate, to hearten the muse now and then--here's health an' long life!" Having said which, he swallowed some of the liquor in turn, sighed, corked the bottle and, having deposited it in the little tent, sat down to his work again with a friendly nod to me. "Young sir," quoth he, "'tis very plain you are one o' the real sort wi' nothing flash about you, therefore I am the more con-sarned on your account, and wonder to see the likes o' you sitting alongside the likes o' me at midnight in Dead Man's Copse--" "Dead Man's Copse!" I repeated, glancing into the shadows and drawing nearer the fire. "It is a very dreadful name--" "But very suitable, young sir. There's many a dead 'un been found hereabouts, laying so quiet an' peaceful at last--pore souls as ha' found this big world and life too much for 'em an' have crept here to end their misery--and why not? There's the poor woman that's lost, say, and wandering in the dark, but with her tired eyes lifted up to the kindly stars; so she struggles on awhile, but by an' by come storm clouds an' one by one the stars go out till only one remains, a little twinkling light that is for her the very light of Hope itself--an' presently that winks an' goes, an' with it goes Hope as well, an' she--poor helpless, weary soul--comes a-creeping into some quiet place like this, an' presently only her poor, bruised body lies here, for the soul of her flies away--up an' up a-singing an' a-carolling--back to the stars!" "This is a great thought--that the soul may not perish!" said I, staring into the Tinker's earnest face.