ey sat
by the roadside on a leafy bank overshaded with cool branches, and,
producing the reduplication of the Barrie stores procured the night
before at Collingwood, proceeded to lunch _al fresco_. The contents of
the india rubber bag, qualified with the spirit in their flasks, cheered
the hearts of the pedestrians and made them more inclined to look on the
bright side of life. Justice having been done to the biscuits and
cheese, Coristine lit his pipe, while the dominie took a turn at
Wordsworth.

With musical intonation, Wilkinson read aloud:--

Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong:
But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary wight along.

With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable man with large grey eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Depress'd by weight of musing phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
Yet some did think that he had little business here.

He would entice that other man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery.
And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,
As far as love in such a place could be;
There did they dwell--from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen:
If but a bird, to keep them company,
Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween,
As pleased as if the same had been a maiden queen.

"That's the true stuff, Wilks, and has the right ring in it, for we love
each other dear, and are as happy spirits as were ever seen, but not a
large grey eye, pale face, or low-hung lip between us. Just hear my
music now, and view my imagery with your mind's eye:--

Far down the ridge, I see the Grinstun man,
Full short in stature and rotund is he,
Pale grey his watery orbs, that dare not scan
His interlocutor, and his goatee,
With hair and whiskers like a furnace be:
Concave the mouth from which his nose-tip flies
In vain attempt to shun vulgarity.
O haste, ye gods, to snatch from him the prize,
And send him hence to weep--and to geologize!"

"The rhythm is all right, Corry, and the rhyme, but I hope you do not
call that poetr