"'Imperious Forrest, dead an' turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep despair away.'"
"Delightful and happy man! I must know you better," said the great tragedian. "May I ask, sir, what is your calling?"
"I, sor, am a tinker o' clocks."
"A tinker of clocks!" said the other, looking at him thoughtfully.
"I should think it poorly suited to your talents."
"Not so. I've only a talent for happiness an' good company."
"And you find good company here?"
"Yes; bards, prophets, an' honest men. They're everywhere."
"Tell me," said Forrest, "were you not some time a player?"
"Player of many parts, but all in God's drama—fool, servant of a rich man, cobbler, clock tinker, all in the coat of a poor man. Me health failed me, sor, an' I took to wandering in the open air. Ten years ago in the city of New York me wife died, since when I have been tinkering here in the edges o' the woodland, where I have found health an' friendship an' good cheer. Faith, sor, that is all one needs, save the company o' the poets.
"'I pray an' sing an' tell old tales an' laugh
At gilded butterflies, an' hear poor rogues
Talk o' court news.'"