"Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying;

Blows the wind on the moors to-day, and now,

Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying—

My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,

Standing Stones on the vacant, wine-red moor;

Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,

And winds austere and pure!

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,

Hills of home! and to hear again the call—

Hear about the graves of the martyrs the pee-wees crying,

And hear no more at all."

To me, in the all too brief days that remained to him, he wrote letter after letter of criticism, encouragement, and praise (in which last, as was his wont, he let his kind heart run far ahead of his judgment). It goes to my heart now not to quote from these, for they are in some wise my poor patent of nobility. But, perhaps with more wisdom, I keep them by me, to hearten myself withal when the days of darkness grow too many and too dark.

To me, in the all too brief days that remained to him, he wrote letter after letter of criticism, encouragement, and praise (in which last, as was his wont, he let his kind heart run far ahead of his judgment). It goes to my heart now not to quote from these, for they are in some wise my poor patent of nobility. But, perhaps with more wisdom, I keep them by me, to hearten myself withal when the days of darkness grow too many and too dark.

So much for bush to this second draught of countryside vintage—the more easily forgiven that it tells of the generosity of a dead man whom I loved. But and if in any fields Elysian or grey twilight of shades, I chance to meet with 

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