'Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave

him place,

'My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face;

'They'd call my house a common stews and me a careless host,

'And I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost.'

The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame,

And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name :—

'Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry:

'Did ye think of that theft for yourself?' said he; and Tomlinson said, 'Ay!'

The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his

heart was free from care :

'Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,' he said, 'but

the roots of sin are there,

'And for that sin should ye come in were I the

lord alone.

'But sinful pride has rule inside—and mightier

than my own.

'Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore:

'Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they'd torture sore.

'Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,' he said; 'ye are neither book nor brute

'Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake

of Man's repute.

'I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should

mock your pain,

'But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come

back again.

'Get hence, the hearse is at your door-the grim black stallions wait

They bear your clay to place to-day. Speed, lest ye come too late!

'Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed-go back

with an open eye,

'And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die:

'That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one

'And . . . the God that you took from a printed

book be with you, Tomlinson!'

L'ENVOI

THERE'S a whisper down the field where the year

has shot her yield,

And the ricks stand grey to the sun, Singing:-'Over then, come over, for the bee has

quit the clover,

'And your English summer's done.'

You have heard the beat of the off-shore

wind,

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song-how long! how

long?

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We've seen the seasons through,

And it's time to turn on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun
Or South to the blind Horn's hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear

lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our

own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail-the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are grey and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;