Huntingtower

I have forgotten. In the village near-by he purchased some new-baked buns and ginger biscuits, to which he was partial, and followed by the shouts of urchins, who admire

ad resolved to have no plethoric midday meal, and presently he found the burnside nook of his fancy, and halted to smoke. On a patch of turf close to a grey stone bridge he had out his Walton and read the chapter on "Th

ivileged to surprise three lunatic hares waltzing. His cheeks glowed with the sun; he moved in an atmosphere of pastoral, serene and contented. When the shadows began to lengthen he arrived at the village of Cloncae, where he proposed to lie. The inn looked dirty, but he found a decent widow, above whose door ran the

t beside the kitchen fire. Mrs. Brockie could not spare a capital letter for her surname on the signboard, but she exalted it in her talk. He heard of a multitude of Brockies, ascendant, descendant a

landscape but brown and grey. Suddenly he awoke to the fact that he was dismal, and thrust the notion behind him. He expanded his chest and drew in long draughts of air. He told himself that this sharp

s, full of quaint turns of speech, unconscious Borrovians. With these samples his disillusionment was speedy. The party was made up of a ferret-faced man with a red nose, a draggle-tailed woman, and a chil

n the accents of the Colonies, the tale of a career of unvarying calamity. There was nothing merry or philosophic about this adventurer. Nay, there was something menacing. He eyed his companion's waterproof covetously, and declared that he had had one like it which

d revived in Dickson memories of his youth, and he was prepared to be friendly. But the ancient would have none of it. He inquired morosely what he was after, and, on being told, remarked that he might have learned more sense. "It's a daft-like thing for an auld man like you to be traivellin' t

rawn to speak of the United Supply Stores, Limited, of their prospects and of their predecessor, Mr. McCunn, whom he knew well by repute but had never met. "Yon's the clever one," he observed. "I've always said there's no longer head in the city of Glasgow than McCunn. An old-fashioned firm, but it has aye managed to keep up with the times. He's just retired, they tell me, and in my opinion it's a big loss to the

or, where lagoons had formed in the ruts, and the mist showed on each side only a yard or two of soaking heather. Soon he was wet; presently every part of him, boots, body and pack, was one vast sponge. The waterproof was not water-proof, and the rain penetrated to his most intimate garments. Little he cared. He felt lighter, younger, than on the idyllic previous day.

arnton winning a horse-race, and the three-volume edition of the Waverley Novels with many volumes missing, and indeed all those things which an inn should have. Also there used to be-there may still be-sound vintage claret in the cellars. The Black Bull expects its guests to arrive in every stage of dishevelment, and Dickson was received by a cordial landlord, who offered dry garments as a matter of course. The pack proved to have resisted the elements,

Izaak Walton did not qualify him to butt into the erudite discussions of fishermen. The landlord seemed to think likewise, for he drew back a chair for him at the other end, where sat a young man absorbed in a book. Dickson gave him good evening and got an abstracted reply.

uperfluous flesh; his face was lean, fine-drawn and deeply sunburnt so that the hair above showed oddly pale; the hands were brown and beautifully shaped, but the forearm revealed by the loose cuffs of his shirt was as brawny a

towns, what harbours would admit what class of vessel. Smiling agreeably, he put Dickson through a catechism to which he knew none of the answers. The landlord was called in, and proved more helpful. But on one

the table. The young man had a second helping, and then refused the excellent hill mutton that followed, contenting himself with cheese. Not so Dickson and the catechist. They ate everything that was set before them, toppi

the book. "Inter

France. I used to be crazy about him, but now he seems rather a back numb

d'you

globe to-day. I was next door to them at Pozières and saw them fight. Lord!

a and bandits in Mexico seemed to him novel and romantic things, but not trenches and airplanes which were the whole world's property. But he could scarcely fit his neighbour into even his haziest picture of war. The young man was tall and a little round-shouldered; he had short-sighted, rather prominent brown eyes, untidy black hair and dark eyebrows which c

the war," he sai

e reply. "And I never want to hear

son, casting back. "But I thought Australi

irs, and Virginians have got butter. So have the Irish. In Britain there are no voices, only speaking tubes. It isn't safe to judge

d a faint hope that the announcement might affect t

me!" exclaimed th

ery old Highland," he said.

ink he had gone too far, for he smiled pleasantly. "And a very good

like a name out of a book. With that

nte Gabriel Rossetti. Great poets have vulgar monosyllables for names, like Keats. The new Shakespeare when he comes along wil

f reading," said

"We'd better bag the armchairs before these fishing louts take them." Dickson followed obediently. This

m, lighted by one oil-lamp. Mr. Heritage flung himself

he asked. "What sort

to myself when I had nothing to do. In church and waiting on trains, like. It

s vein-'God's in His Heaven, all's right with the world.' No good, Mr. McCunn. All back numbers. Poetry's not a thing of pretty round p

poet, Mr.

n, I'm a p

nce knew a paper-maker," he observed reflect

paper-maker, but that's for my bread and but

published

ed Mr. Heritage. He drew from his pocket a sli

h a white label on the back, and it was lettered: "Whorls-John Heritage's Book." H

, I must have failed pretty ba

ning to understand. He found one poem about a garden entitled "Revue." "Crimson

adiers, ogle the roses

sweet wine hidde

he drunk

picene lily." Then came evening: "The painted gauze of the stars flutters in a fold of tw

orrible, lingering lovingly over sights and smells which every one is aware of, but most people contrive to forget. He did not like them. Finally

metaphors mostly drawn from music-halls and haberdashers' shops, and, when at a loss, to fall to cursing.

said t

here, but-but the lines don'

t for poetry. I say there's nothing unfit for poetry. Nothing, Dogson! Poetry's everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among drabs and pot-houses and rubbish heaps than in your Sunday parlours. The poet's business is to distil it out of rottenness, and show that it is all one spirit, the thing that keeps the stars in their place.... I wanted to c

. He disliked being called Dogson, which seemed to him an abuse o

r haltingly his pr

istened with w

You make up romances about gipsies and sailors and the blackguards they call pioneers, but you know nothing about them. If you did, you would find they had none of the gilt and gloss you imagine. But the gr

alls and appeared to be about to take the road. He bade them good night and it seemed to Dickson that his

life in the bush, stock-riding and the rest of it. But probably he's a bank-clerk from Melbourne.... Your romanticism is one vast s

t "C," was puzzled. "I thought a kelt was

e've got to finish the destruction before we can build. It is the same with literature and religion and society and politics. At them with the axe, say I. I have no u

Dickson dryly, "is in Ru

t imitate all their methods-they're a trifle crude and have too many Jews among the

was slowly

wandering herea

pretty closely tied up all winter. And I w

t turn your attention to. You'll ha

-five at Harrow, f

ality, says you. It's sheer ignorance, for you're about as well acquaint with the working-man as with King Solomon. You say I make up fine stories about tinklers and sailor-men because I know nothing about them. That's maybe true. But you're at the same job yourself. You ideelise the working-man, you and your kind, because you're ignorant. You say that he's seeking for truth, when he's only lo

His innocent little private domain had been badly trampled by this stray bull of a poet. But as he lay in bed, before bl

be, as too many men too often do; but she cast away all care, and sang like a nightingale; her voice was good, and the ditty fitted for it; it was the smooth song that was made by Kit Marlow now at least fifty years ago. And the mil