Some full-grown man: it is the minute-toll."
"Mayhap the stranger down at Miriam Lane's;
I heard that he was dying yester-e'en.
The tide has turn'd but now: 'tis running out;
Whoe'er he was, his soul upon the shore
Waited the ebbing tide to ebb away."
Then came they to a little knot of men
(Fishers in dark-blue knitted woollen vests)
Hard by "the idle corner,"—so 'twas called,—
The blacksmith's forge. The honest gossippers,