"I have published only one volume so far."

"Lord!" he whispered. "Published a vollum--in print--a book! Ah--what
wouldn't I give t' see my verses in print--in a book--to know they
were good enough--"

"Ah, pray don't mistake!" said I hastily, my new diffidence growing by
reason of his unfeigned and awestruck wonder. "I published them
myself--no bookseller would take them, so I--I paid to have them
printed."

"And did it cost much--very much?" he enquired eagerly. "Anywhere
near, well, say--five pound?"

"A great deal nearer a hundred!"

"A hun--" he gasped. "By goles!" he ejaculated after a moment, "poetry
comes expensive, don't it? A hundred pound! Lord love me, I don't make
so much in a year! So I'll never see any o' my verses in a book, 'tis
very sure. Ah, well," said he with a profound sigh, "that won't stop
me a-thinking or a-making of 'em, will it?"

"And what do you write about?" I enquired, vastly interested.

"All sorts o' things--common things, trees an' brooks, fields an'
winding roads, and then--there's always the stars. Wrote one about 'em
this very week, if you'd care to--"

"I should," cried I eagerly. "Indeed I should!"