But how I may escape the death
That never, never dies—
How make my own election sure,
And, when I fail on earth, secure
A mansion in the skies.”
“There was something inspiring, something helpful, in the last verse,” he mused, “but, for the life of me, I cannot recall it.”
The piping note of a robin from a clump of bush trees close by broke into his reverie. He lifted his head sharply and looked around, then upwards. The stars had paled in the violet dome above him. Somewhere near, ahead of him, was a piece of ornamental water. He caught a glimpse of it between the trees.
“Pip-pip!” came again from the robin’s throat. He remembered Charles Fox, and said softly aloud:
“Came forward to be seen,
My little bright-eyed fellow,