A trim young fellow, in soldier's garb looked out at me.
"And which son is this ?" I asked.
They laughed a hearty chorus.

Son! Nay, grandson, just back from Indian service and a soldier-trumpeter to the King.

His brother was in the same regiment with him.

And so it ran, sons and daughters, and grand sons and daughters, world-wanderers and empire-builders, all of them, while the old folks stayed at home and worked at building empire too.
"There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And a wealthy wife is she; She breeds a breed o' rovin' men And casts them over sea.
"And some are drowned in deep water, And some in sight of shore; And word goes back to the weary wife, And ever she sends more." But the Sea Wife's child-bearing is about done.

The stock is running out, and the planet is filling up.