tened stone.

Now let my bed be hard,
No care take I;
I'll make my joy like this
Small Butterfly;
Whose happy heart has power
To make a stone a flower.

_Hilaire Belloc_

Hilaire Belloc, who has been described as "a Frenchman, an Englishman,
an Oxford man, a country gentleman, a soldier, a satirist, a democrat,
a novelist, and a practical journalist," was born July 27, 1870. After
leaving school he served as a driver in the 8th Regiment of French
Artillery at Toul Meurthe-et-Moselle, being at that time a French
citizen. He was naturalized as a British subject somewhat later, and
in 1906 he entered the House of Commons as Liberal Member for South
Salford.

As an author, he has engaged in multiple activities. He has written
three satirical novels, one of which, _Mr. Clutterbuck's Election_,
sharply exposes British newspapers and underground politics. His _Path
to Rome_ (1902) is a high-spirited and ever-delightful travel book
which has passed through many editions. His historical studies and
biographies of _Robespierre_ and _Marie Antoinette_ (1909) are
classics of their kind. As a poet he is only somewhat less engaging.
His _Verses_ (1910) is a rather brief collection of poems on a wide
variety of themes. Although his humorous and burlesque stanzas are
refreshing, Belloc is most himself when he writes either of malt
liquor or his beloved Sussex. Though his religious poems are full of a
fine romanticism, "The South Country" is the most pictorial and
persuasive of his serious poems. His poetic as well as his spiritual
kinship with G. K. Chesterton is obvious.

THE SOUTH COUNTRY

When I am living in the Midlands
That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves al