penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on the work of
laborious insects."

"If it ban't your awn fault, then whose be it, Clem?"

"The fault of Chance--to pack my build of brains into the skull of a
pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine only
dreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see."

"You've given up trying whether it can or not, seemin'ly. I never hear
tell of no verses now."

"What 's the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a
wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours
and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme."

"Will 'e read it to me?"

He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his,
pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart's criticism of
his verses.

"It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you
know. I call it 'A Devon Courting.'"

He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an
accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and
Drake.

"Birds gived awver singin',