"Yes, the falling of water, rhythmic, poetry—all poets have been as water. I will class them for you. Keats, the rivulet; Shelley, the brook; Byron, the creek; Tennyson, the river; Wordsworth, the lake; Milton, the bay; and Shakespeare, the waters of all the world, the sea. But I will not keep you up. You are a working-man, and must rest."
"Don't go; I'm not tired; I haven't done a thing to-day. Shall I fill the jug?"
"No, enough. Let me take up my gilded trash," he said, reaching for his bundle.
"I wish you'd stay longer. Let me go home with you."
"No, I prefer to walk alone. You remember in the old reader, the dog went out to walk alone."
"It was the cat that walked alone," said Milford. "The dog sat down to gnaw his bone. Don't you recollect?"
The old man touched his forehead, and shook his head. "So it was the cat that walked alone. But we will reverse it. The dog will walk alone to-night."
"I wish you'd let me go with you."
"Plead not your friendship, or I shall yield. But I want to be alone."
"Then you shall be."