Through the long winter dark, When slumber is at my sill, Will you leave me dreamfast there, For your journey over the hill? To-night when the forest trees Gleam in the frosty air, And over the roofs of men Stillness is everywhere, By the cold hunter's moon, What trail will you take alone, Through the white realms of sleep, To your native land unknown? Here while the birches are yellow, And red is the wayfaring tree, Sit down in the sun, my soul, And talk of yourself to me. [Illustration: John was a very poor machine, indeed.—Page 450.] THE MAN FROM THE MACHINE By Judson Knox I I was early down at the bank that morning, as the day promised to be a sweltering one, and a little extra work in the cool of the forenoon would save a deal of discomfort later on. So, by half-past eight, when Ted Lummis, the book-keeper, and Bill Ryan, who balanced pass-books and ran the appendix ledger, arrived, I had the safe open, and their ledgers, with fresh blotters, laid out ready for them on their desks. But, as usual, they preferred to loiter and chat awhile in the president's office. After a few words to me, therefore, Ted comfortably settled himself in the big desk-chair, lit a cigarette, and commenced unfolding the morning paper. Bill, as his custom was, took up a post by the window and watched the loafers on the street corner. I was wetting the teller's sponges at the sink, and speculating how long his mistakes in cash would keep us after hours that afternoon, when a great guffaw broke out in the office. I recognized the voice as Ted's, and, squeezing my sponges into their dishes, hurried into the banking-room, slopping a trail of water on the floor behind me. From there I could see the backs of the two fellows, still shaking with laughter, bent over the president's desk, on which the open paper was spread. "You didn't know he was going to have one?" Ted was saying, in a tone of superiority to which he apparently considered the possibility of asking this question entitled him. "No. How should I?" replied Bill, evidently piqued; and then added, by way of subterfuge, "what's he or his family to me?" When Bill spoke in this way it was pretty certain he was talking about John Makeator, our teller. "Well," pressed the other, bound on making his point, "you knew he wouldn't take a vacation this summer. What did you suppose that was for?" "Why? Good Lord, isn't he stingy enough?" "Perhaps he wanted the additional salary to help pay for his mistakes in cash," I suggested, scarcely less uncharitably, but with the memory of yesterday's three hours' hunt for a balance rising again in my mind. "_He_ is John, I presume," I went on, as the others turned around; "but what's up with him, Ted? What's he 'got?'" "'Got!' You fellows are as blind as if you were locked up in the vault. 'Got!' Why, a baby, of course, Jim!"