"Yes—of a sort!" I answered, finding myself suddenly and strangely diffident.
"An' you so young!" said he in hushed and awestruck tones. "Have you writ many poems, sir?"
"I have published only one volume so far."
"Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum—in print—a book! Ah—what wouldn't I give t' see my verses in print—in a book—to know they were good enough—"
"Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing by reason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published them myself—no bookseller would take them, so I—I paid to have them printed."
"And did it cost much—very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywhere near, well, say—five pound?"
"A great deal nearer a hundred!"
"A hun—" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetry comes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't make so much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tis very sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stop me a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?"
"And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested.
"All sorts o' things—common things, trees an' brooks, fields an' winding roads, and then—there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'em this very week, if you'd care to—"