"When night comes down, where'er I be I want no roof to shelter me; I love to lie where I may see The blessed stars. "Though I am one not over-wise They seem to me like friendly eyes That watch us kindly from the skies, These winking stars. "Though I've no friend to share my woe And bitter tears unseen may flow, To soothe my grief I silent go To tell the stars. "And when my time shall come to die I care not where my flesh shall lie Because I know my soul shall fly Back to the stars!" "Did you write that?" I exclaimed. "Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don't it?" "Yes." "Goes wi' a swing, don't it?" "Yes." "Very well then; what more can you want in a verse?" "But you've got more--much more!" "What more?" "A great deal! Atmosphere, for one thing--" "Why, 't was writ under a hedge," he explained. "And now, friend, p'raps you'll oblige me wi' one o' yourn?" "Indeed I would rather not," said I, finding myself oddly ill at ease for once. "Come, fair is fair!" he urged. Hereupon, after some little reflection, I began reciting this, one of my latest efforts: "Hail, gentle Dian, goddess-queen Throned 'mid th' Olympian vasts Majestic, splendidly serene 'Spite Boreas' rageful blasts. Immaculate, 'midst starry fires Incalculable thou--" here I stopped suddenly and bowed my head. "Why, what now, young sir; what's wrong?" questioned the Tinker. "Everything!" said I miserably. "This is not poetry!" "It--sounds very fine!" said the Tinker kindly. "But it is just sound and nothing more--it is fatuous--trivial--it has no soul, no meaning, nothing of value--I shall never be a poet!" And knowing this for very truth, there was born in me a humility wholly unknown until this moment. "Nay--never despond, friend!" quoth the Tinker, laying his hand on my bowed shoulder. "For arter all you've got what I ain't got--words! All you need is to suffer a bit, mind an' body, an' not so much for yourself as for some one or something else. Nobody can expect to be a real poet, I think, as hasn't suffered or grieved over summat or some one! So cheer up; suffering's bound to come t' ye soon or late; 'tis only to be expected in this world. Meanwhile how are ye going to live?" "I haven't thought of it yet." "Hum! Any money?" "Only eighteen guineas." "Why, 'tis a tidy sum! But even eighteen pound can't last for ever, an' when 'tis all gone--how then?" "I don't know." "Hum!" quoth the Tinker again and sat rubbing his chin and staring into the fire, while I, lost in my new humility, wondered if my painting was not as futile as my poetry. "Can ye work?" enquired my companion suddenly. "I think so!" "What at?" "I don't know!" "Hum! Any trade or profession?" "None!"