“That's the best that can be said for it anyhow,--except indeed that the poor ignorant sailor might, in the midst of such horrors, well make the blunder.--By the way, in the first edition it stood as you have just said: the line was, “'Almost within the tips.'” “What did he change it to?” “He made it-- “'Within the nether tip.'” “Why did he change it?” “You would see that at the first glance, if you were used to riming.” “Are you a poet, then, as well as a blacksmith and a bookbinder?” “Too much of a poet, I hope, to imagine myself more than a whittler of reeds!” answered Richard. He was not sorry, however, to let Barbara know him for a poor relation of the high family of poets. In truth, what best enabled him to understand their work, was the humble work of the same sort he did himself. She did not understand what he meant by a _whittler of reeds_, but she rightly took what he said for a humble affirmative. “I begin to be frightened at you!” she rejoined, half meaning it. “Who knows what else you may not be!” “I am little enough of anything,” answered Richard, “but nothing that I do not wish to be more of.” A short silence followed. “You have not told me yet why he changed that line!” resumed Barbara. “Better wait until I can show it you in the book: then you will see at once.” “Please, go on then. I don't know anything about the poem yet! I don't know why it was written!” “You like some dreams, though they have no reason in them, don't you?” “Yes; but then I suppose there is reason in the poem!” “There is, indeed!” said Richard, and went on. But presently she stopped him. “One thing I should like to know before we go further,” she said; “--why they all fell down except the ancient Mariner.” “You remember that Death and the woman were casting dice?” “Yes.” “It is not very clear, but this is how I understand the thing:--They diced for the crew, one by one; Death won every one till they came to the last, the ancient Mariner himself, and the woman, a sort of live Death, wins him. That is why she cries, 'I've won, I've won!' and whistles thrice--though she has won only one out of two hundred. I should think she was used to Death having more than she, else she wouldn't have been so pleased. Perhaps she seldom got one!” “Yes, I see all that. But things oughtn't to go by the casting of dice. Money may, for that does not signify, but not the souls and bodies of men. It should not be the way in a poem any more than in the open world.--Let me think!--I have it!--They were not good men, those sailors! They first blamed, and then justified, and then again blamed and cruelly punished the poor mariner, who had done wrong certainly, but was doubtless even then sorry for it. He was cruel to a bird he did not know, and they were cruel to a man they did know! So they are taken, and he is left--to come well out of it at last, I hope.--Yes, it's all right! Now you can go on.”