"You have a capital lot of books, my man. I suppose you know them all by heart, pretty well?"
"Yes, I know them; not by heart exactly, but I've had a lot of time these two winters, and I've gone over them and written about them."
"Well, which do you like best of all?"
"My fancy's all for mathematics, but I like poetry."
"Ah! And I suppose you write poetry—don't you, now?"
He was not abashed—he said in an ordinary tone, "Very often. It doesn't seem good, but I go on at it. It pleases me and puts away the time now and then. There's some in that copy-book at your side."
I know what a fearful thing youthful poetry is, and I felt a discreet dread. But I opened the book and saw that the young man had been writing verses in a large strong hand. I did not read much. There was one pair of broken quatrains which I remember:—
"Though toil is heavy I'll not be sad,
I'll rest content while my pulses beat;
If I work, and love, and trust and be glad,
Perchance the world will come to my feet.
But if no fortune ever be mine,
If my bones on this grey hill-side must lie,
As long as I breathe I'll not repine,
I've gladly lived and I'll gladly die."
"You're not very particular about the form of your verses," said I.
"No! I never count syllables. I only go by accents."