So what does it matter if time be fleet,
And life sends no one to love us?
We've the dust of the roadway under our feet
And a smother of stars above us.
—A Wee Song.
I think that the two verses given above were the best verses of a song which I wrote on a bit of tea-paper and read to Moleskin on the last day of our journey to Kinlochleven. Anyhow, they are the only two which I remember. Since I had read part of the poem "Evelyn Hope," I was possessed of a leaning towards lilting rhymes, and now and again I would sit down and scribble a few lines of a song on a piece of paper. Times were when I had a burning desire to read my effusions to Moleskin, but always I desisted, thinking that he would perhaps laugh at me, or call me fool. Perhaps I would sink in my mate's estimation. I began to like Joe more and more, and daily it became apparent that he had a genuine liking for me.
We were now six days on our journey. Charity was cold, while belly-thefts were few and far between. We were hungry, and the weather being very hot at high noon, Moleskin lay down and had his dog-sleep. I wrote a few other verses in addition to those which herald this chapter, and read them to my mate when he awoke. When I had finished I asked Joe how he liked my poem.
"It's a great song," answered Moleskin. "You're nearly as good a poet as Two-shift Mullholland."
"Two-shift Mullholland?" I repeated. "I've never heard of him. Do you know anything written by him?"
"Of course I do. Have you never heard of 'The Shootin' of the Crow'?"