The dusky, mouldering towers of the old time, of hope and love and friendship. They call me in the silence and have put a new song in my mouth." So he went on singing this rough, unmeasured song of the old time as if his heart were full and could not hold its peace. He sang of childhood and youth and of joys half forgotten. Sinth stood waiting, with the food in her hands, before he finished. He let the children go and began eating. "This is good," said he, "and I feel like blessing every one of you. Sometimes I think God looks out of the eyes of the hungry." After a moment he added: "Strong, do you remember that song I wrote for you? It gives the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 'The Song of the Venison-Tree.'" The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious fact that many who stammer can follow the rut of familiar music without betraying their infirmity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the song of THE VENISON-TREE [Illustration: 0261] [Illustration: 0262] [Illustration: 0263] [Illustration: 0264] [Illustration: 0265] As the Emperor ceased, Dunmore turned quickly, his black eyes glowing in the firelight. Raising his right hand above his head, he chanted these lines: "The wilderness shall pass away like Babylon of old, And every tree shall go to build a thing of greater mould; The chopper he shall fall to earth as fell the mighty tree, And his timber shall be used to build a nobler man than he." "Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?" Strong asked. "His character," Dunmore answered. "Men are like trees. Some are hickory, some are oak, some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some are strong, beautiful, generous; some are small and sickly for want of air and sunlight; some are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. Every year we must draw energy out of the great breast of nature and put on a fresh ring of wood. We must grow or die. You know what comes to the rotten-hearted?" "Uh-huh," said the hunter. "There's good timber enough in you and in that little book of yours," Dunmore went on. "If it's only milled with judgment--some of it would stand planing and polishing--there's enough, my friend, to make a mansion. Believe me, it will not be lost." Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' b-but a woodpecker's drum," he answered. After a moment of silence he asked, "What'll become o' the country?"