“_And all those ships were certainly so old, Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun, Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, The pirate Genoese Hell-raked them, till they rolled Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold--_ _But I have seen ... A drowsy ship of some yet older day; And, wonder’s breath indrawn, Thought I--who knows--who knows--but in that same (Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new --Stern painted brighter blue--) That talkative, bald-headed seaman came (Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar) From Troy’s doom-crimson shore, And with great lies about his wooden horse, Set the crew laughing and forgot his course._ _It was so old a ship--who knows, who knows?_” In these lines is shown the lure of all ancient things that store a tale which they cannot tell. There is a charm and mystery in unremembered things. There is something fine in the sight of a ridge of hill against the sky when one does not know what lies beyond or whether a surprise of rolling sea beneath a sudden fall of cliff, or a panorama of wooded valleys, is in store at the summit--so one can only guess and wonder. And, when, in some border-village we look at hills that have watched centuries stride by, and ask ourselves of distant scenes and old adventure that the hills must have overlooked, and when we learn that these matters were writ in water and that about them not history any more than the stern hill-crags can break her everlasting silence--then here is adventure for the imagination, and in our fancy we play around places that we know and events that we have heard of, weaving around “What-has-been” the things that might have been. We do the kind of thinking that is needed to turn a map into a picture, the kind of thinking that might translate last year’s National Budget into a drama of hearts and homes.