"Should you, friend?" said he, fumbling in a pocket of his sleeved
waistcoat. "Why, then, so you shall, though there ain't much of it,
which is p'raps just as well!"

From his pocket he brought forth a strange collection of oddments
whence he selected a crumpled wisp of paper; this he smoothed out and
bending low to the fire, read aloud as follows:

"When night comes down, where'er I be
I want no roof to shelter me;
I love to lie where I may see
The blessed stars.

"Though I am one not over-wise
They seem to me like friendly eyes That watch us kindly from the skies,
These winking stars.

"Though I've no friend to share my woe
And bitter tears unseen may flow,
To soothe my grief I silent go
To tell the stars.

"And when my time shall come to die
I care not where my flesh shall lie
Because I know my soul shall fly
Back to the stars!"

"Did you write that?" I exclaimed.

"Aye, I did!" he answered, a little anxiously. "Rhymes true, don't