"Well, of course, there are poets and poets, poets sociable and poets very unsociable. Wordsworth made the country, but Lamb made the town; and there is quite a band of poets nowadays who share his distaste for mountains, and take London for their muse. If you'll promise not to cry again, I'll recall some lines by a friend of mine which were written for town-tastes like ours. But perhaps you know them?" It will gratify my friend to learn that Rosalind had the verses I refer to by heart, and started off humming,-- "Ah, London, London, our delight, Great flower that opens but at night, Great city of the midnight sun, Whose day begins when day is done... Like dragon-flies the hansoms hover With jewelled eyes to catch the lover;" and so on, with a gusto of appreciation that must have been very gratifying to the author had he been present. Thus perceiving a taste for a certain modern style of poetry in my companion, I bethought me of a poem which I had written on the roadside a few days before, and which, I confess, I was eager to confide to some sympathetic ear. I was diffident of quoting it after such lines as Rosalind had recalled, but by the time we had reached our coffee, I plucked up courage to mention it. I had, however, the less diffidence in that it would have a technical interest for her, being indeed no other than a song of cycling a deux which had been suggested by one of those alarmist danger-posts always placed at the top of the pleasantest hills, sternly warning the cyclist that "this hill is dangerous,"--just as in life there is always some minatory notice-board frowning upon us in the direction we most desire to take. But I omit further preface and produce the poem:-- "This hill is dangerous," I said, As we rode on together Through sunny miles and sunny miles Of Surrey heather; "This hill is dangerous--don't you think We'd better walk it?" "Or sit it out--more danger still!" She smiled--"and talk it?" "Are you afraid?" she turned and cried So very brave and sweetly,-- Oh that brave smile that takes the heart Captive completely! "Afraid?" I said, deep in her eyes Recklessly gazing; "For you I'd ride into the sun And die all blazing!" "I never yet saw hill," I said, "And was afraid to take it; I never saw a foolish law, And feared to break it. Who fears a hill or fears a law With you beside him? Who fears, dear star, the wildest sea With you to guide him?" Then came the hill--a cataract, A dusty swirl, before us; The world stood round--a village world-- In fearful chorus. Sure to be killed! Sure to be killed! O fools, how dare ye! Sure to be killed--and serve us right! Ah! love, but were we?