O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift, fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud; A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. There was a slight pause. Every man's eye was on the gray face bending over the book in the flickering light. When he began reading the next verse he lifted his eyes from the pages and looked away, farther away than the circle of brown-branched trees. There was, to the men, a suggestion in his tone of an approach to something strange, perhaps forbidding. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered abroad and together be laid. He paused a moment. Involuntarily several glances were cast toward the leaves lying by the legs at their feet. He went on: And the young and the old, the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. It was very quiet. The peasant whose lot is to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbs with his goats up the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. There was much more than the words in the reading. The group about the fire saw the peasant, saw the herdsman. They saw the saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven and the sinner who dared to remain unforgiven. There in the quiet of the night beside the ashes and the flames, he was making all these live--and go their short way. So the multitude goes--like the flowers or the weeds * * * * * So the multitude comes, even these we behold, To repeat every tale that has ever been told Kit Parsons punched the fire. Buck Thompson reached for a bottle and drew his hand back empty. We are the same that our fathers have been, * * * * * We drink the same stream and view the same sun And run the same course that our fathers have run. Pausing again, as if a line of thought ran in between the verses, he looked away from the book. The next verse was about the mother and child--each, all are away to their dwelling of rest. He seemed now hesitating whether or not to proceed. The men watched him without comment. His gray face was marked with a fresh baptism of pain which he seemed to be struggling to put away. With unsteady voice he read. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Show beauty and pleasure-- Here there was a long pause. Ole Bar got up and went out. Kit Parsons poked the fire. Buck Thompson took to spitting. But no man spoke as the voice by the fire pronounced the words "her triumphs--are by," and even the fire seemed to burn softly. For a moment he glanced about the group--a helpless glance of appeal to those strong men. Buck Thompson was drawing his sleeves across his eye, evidently to remove some foreign matter. Jack Armstrong was pinching his red bandanna down under his leg. Another chunk was pitched into the fire.