room for strange things to happen. Here is the experience of Grim,
son of Ingiald. "He used to row out to fish in the winter with his
thralls, and his son used to be with him. When the boy began to grow
cold they wrapt him in a sealskin bag and pulled it up to his neck.
Grim pulled up a merman. And when he came up Grim said, 'Do thou tell
us our life and how long we shall live, or else thou shalt never
see thy home again.' 'It is of little worth to you to know this,' he
answered,' though it is to the boy in the sealskin bag, for thou shalt
be dead ere the spring come, but thy son shall take up his abode and
take land in settlement where thy mare Skalm shall lie down under the
pack.' They got no more words out of him. But later in the winter Grim
died, and he is buried there." So much for Grim. His widow took her
son forth to Broadfrith, and all that summer Skalm never lay down.
Next year they were on Borgfrith, "and Skalm went on till they came
off the heath south to Borgfrith, where two red sand-dunes were, and
there she lay down under the pack below the outermost sand-well."
There the son of Grim set up his rest. There will nevermore be room in
the world for things like that, but it is pleasant to know of them,




"WORKS AND DAYS"


Some time or another, Apollo my helper, I would choose to write a new
_Works and Days_ wherein the land-lore of our own Boeotia should be
recorded and enshrined for a season. There should be less practice
than Tusser gives you, less art than the _Georgics_, but rather more
of each than Hesiod finds occasion for. Though it is long since I read