"Is this true, my host, or is it false?" and he clasped Procrustes round waist and elbow, so that he could not draw his sword.
"Is this true, my host, or is it false!" But Procrustes answered never a word.
Then Theseus flung him from him, and lifted up his dreadful club; and before Procrustes could strike him, he had struck and felled him to the ground.
And once again he struck him; and his evil soul fled forth, squeaking like a bat into the darkness of a cave.
Then Theseus stripped him of his gold ornaments, and went up to his house, and found there great wealth and treasure, which he had stolen from the passers-by. And he called the people of the country, whom Procrustes had spoiled a long time, and divided the spoil among them, and went down the mountains, and away.
Kingsley: "The Heroes."
(Adapted)
"BOB WHITE"
I see you, on the zigzag rails,
You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
"Bob White! Bob White!" you whistle.
Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
Are nodding there to greet you;
I know that you are out for play—
How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates, you and I,
"Bob White," would make together!