"We are only just beginning to hear about these things in the bush," said Ned. "What is Socialism?" "That's a big question," answered Geisner. "Socialism is----" He was interrupted. "Silence, everybody!" cried Mrs. Stratton. "Listen to Arty's latest!" CHAPTER VIII. THE POET AND THE PRESSMAN. "Silence, everybody!" commanded Mrs. Stratton. "Listen to Arty's latest!" She had gone up to him as they all came in. "Is it good?" she asked, looking over his arm. For answer he held the slips down to her and changed them as she read rapidly, only pausing occasionally to ask him what a more than usually obscured word was. There was hardly a line as originally written. Some words had been altered three and four times. Whole lines had been struck out and fresh lines inserted. In some verses nothing was left of the original but the measure and the rhymes. "No wonder you were worrying if you had all this on your mind," she remarked, as he finished, smiling at him. "Let me read it to them." He nodded. So when the buzz of conversation had stopped she read his verses to the others, holding his arm in the middle of the room, her sweet voice conveying their spirit as well as their words. And Arty stood by her, jubilant, listening proudly and happily to the rhythm of his new-born lines, for all the world like a young mother showing her new-born babe. THE VISION OF LABOUR. There's a sound of lamentation 'mid the murmuring nocturne noises, And an undertone of sadness, as from myriad human voices, And the harmony of heaven and the music of the spheres, And the ceaseless throb of Nature, and the flux and flow of years, Are rudely punctuated with the drip of human tears --As Time rolls on! Yet high above the beat of surf, and Ocean's deep resounding, And high above the tempest roar of wind on wave rebounding, There's a burst of choral chanting, as of victors in a fight, And a battle hymn of triumph wakes the echoes of the night, And the shouts of heroes mingle with the shriekings of affright --As Time rolls on! There's a gleam amid the darkness, and there's sight amid the blindness, And the glow of hope is kindled by the breath of human kindness, And a phosphorescent glimmer gilds the spaces of the gloom, Like the sea-lights in the midnight, or the ghost-lights of the tomb, Or the livid lamps of madness in the charnel-house of doom --As Time rolls on! And amidst the weary wand'rers on the mountain crags belated There's a hush of expectation, and the sobbings are abated, For a word of hope is spoken by a prophet versed in pain, Who tells of rugged pathways down to fields of golden grain, Where the sun is ever shining, and the skies their blessings rain --As Time rolls on!