"Ah, young sir, where does the soul come from--where does it go to? Look yonder!" said he, pointing upwards with his hammer where stars twinkled down upon us through the leaves. "So they've been for ages, and so they will be, winking down through the dark upon you an' me an' others like us, to teach us by their wisdom. An' as to our souls--Lord, I've seen so many corpses in my time I know the soul can't die. Corpses? Aye, by goles, I'm always a-finding of 'em. Found one in this very copse none so long ago--very young she was--poor, lonely lass! Ah, well! Her troubles be all forgot, long ago. An' here's the likes o' you sitting along o' the likes o' me in a wood at midnight--you as should be snug in sheets luxoorious, judging by your looks--an' wherefore not, young friend?" Now there was about this small, quick, keen-eyed tinker a latent kindliness, a sympathy that attracted me involuntarily, so that, after some demur, I told him my story in few words as possible and careful to suppress all names. Long before I had ended he had laid by hammer and kettle and turned, elbows on knees and chin on sinewy fists, viewing me steadfastly where I sat in the fireglow. "So you make verses likewise, do you?" he questioned, when I had done. "Yes." "And can paint pic-toors, beside?" "Yes--of a sort!" I answered, finding myself suddenly and strangely diffident. "An' you so young!" said he in hushed and awestruck tones. "Have you writ many poems, sir?" "I have published only one volume so far." "Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum--in print--a book! Ah--what wouldn't I give t' see my verses in print--in a book--to know they were good enough--" "Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing by reason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published them myself--no bookseller would take them, so I--I paid to have them printed." "And did it cost much--very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywhere near, well, say--five pound?" "A great deal nearer a hundred!" "A hun--" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetry comes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't make so much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tis very sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stop me a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?" "And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested. "All sorts o' things--common things, trees an' brooks, fields an' winding roads, and then--there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'em this very week, if you'd care to--" "I should," cried I eagerly. "Indeed I should!" "Should you, friend?" said he, fumbling in a pocket of his sleeved waistcoat. "Why, then, so you shall, though there ain't much of it, which is p'raps just as well!" From his pocket he brought forth a strange collection of oddments whence he selected a crumpled wisp of paper; this he smoothed out and bending low to the fire, read aloud as follows: