But we'll use it, Ross.

Don't read any more to us, though; I feel weaker than I did, and I wasn't strong before.

Go down and set it all up." Mr.Schofield rejoined with an injured air, and yet hopefully: "I'd like to see what you think of the poetry--it seemed all right to me, but I reckon you ain't ever the best judge of your own work.

Shall I read it ?" The foreman only glanced at him in silence, and the young man took this for assent.

"I haven't made up any name for it yet." "'O, the orphan boy stood on the hill, The wind blew cold and very chill--'" Glancing at his auditors, he was a trifle abashed to observe a glaze upon the eyes of Mr.Parker, while a purple tide rose above his neck-band and unnaturally distended his throat and temples.