Here he lies where he long’d to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
But enough of mortality! Let me tell you a little thing that happened yesterday. An Italian I used to know, a clerk, who has been in England for three or four years, came in to say goodbye. He is going home.
“You’ll be glad to be seeing your wife again after all this long while,” I said.
He pondered. “My wife, I don’t know,” he replied at last: “but my leetler boy, Oh, yais!”—Good night, my dear.
R. H.