,
Its waves held firm Thy steady feet.
Wouldst Thou not talk of boats and nets,
If Thou some fishermen shouldst meet?
Yes, Thou wouldst speak of boats and nets,
Though walking on the golden street.

"And if, O Christ, Thou met'st some day
The Fishermen from Galilee,
Wouldst Thou not speed the hours away,
Recalling life upon their sea?
And sure their hearts would burn and thrill,
Remembering, Thy 'Peace be still!'

"The Crystal Sea could ne'er replace
The old Earth Sea, so wild and gray--
The strain, the struggle, and the race
For daily bread, from day to day.
O Christ! we fishermen implore,
Say not, 'The sea shall be no more.'

"Its tides have seen Thy godlike face--
Look down into its hidden graves,
Have felt Thy feet in solemn pace
Pass through the valley of its waves.
Fisher of Galilee! We pray,
Let not the Earth Sea pass away."

"Weel, Sir, will you give me the bit paper now?"

"I want you to give it to me. In a year I should like to read it
again, and see how you have improved."

"Take your will wi' it, Sir."

"To write poetry teaches you how to write prose--teaches you the words
of the English language, their variety and value. A good prose writer
can write poetry, for he is acquainted wi' words, and can always find
the word he wants; but a good poet is not often a good prose writer."

"How is that, Sir?"

"Because he is satisfied with his own vehicle of expression. He thinks
it is the best. I am glad you have begun by writing poetry--but do not
stop there." As he was speaking he folded up the bit of paper in his
hand, and put it into his pocketbook. Then he went to speak to
Margot.

"Margot," he said, "what do you think? Christine has been writing a
poem, and it is better than might be."

"Christine has been making up poetry ever since she was a bit bairn.
She reads a great deal o' poetry to me out o' the books you sent her.
Oh, Domine, they hae been a wonderfu' pleasuring to us baith! Though I
never thought I wad live to find my only pleasure in novels and bits
o' poetry. Three or four years ago I wad hae laughed anyone to scorn
who said such a thing could happen to Margot Ruleson. 'Deed wad I!"

"God often brings the impossible to pass, and even nourishes us on it.
What has Christine been reading to you?"

"She has read to me the doings o' David Copperfield, and about that
puir lad, Oliver Twist. I was greatly ta'en u