It is one of the privileges of youth that alimentary indulgence is but rarely penalized, and if either of us next morning was pale and disinclined for breakfast it was certainly not Tommy.

On the contrary, he seemed cool, and fit, and hungry, and although he looked at me occasionally in a shy, questioning way, yet he chattered away much as usual, and made no reference to yesterday's adventures.

Only when the poet called for him and at the window I laid a hand upon his shoulder to bid him a happy day, he turned to me, impulsively:

"You are a ripper," he said.

There is no sweeter or more genuine praise than a boy's.

I watched them down the lane, and my eyes sought the downs, clear, and wide, and sunny. I thought of the tawdry inn, and its associations, and prayed that Tommy might learn a lesson from the contrast.

Says Jasper the gipsy:

"Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?"

Hark back to your well-thumbed Lavengro and you will find, if you do not remember, his reasons.

Nor are they weightier than these:

"Night and day, brother, both sweet things; sun, moon and stars, all sweet things; there's likewise a wind on the heath."

Deep in the heart of every boy lies something of the gipsy, and even if, in after life, it grows sick and stifled by reason of much traffic among crowded streets, yet I doubt if it ever so far vanishes that to it the wind on the heath shall appeal in vain. Nor was the poet wrong in his prognosis, for to Tommy, at any rate, it was full of unspoken messages on this August morning. Wind on the heath—yes, it is always there, clean, and strong, and happy, lingering with soft wings over furze and bracken, full of whispered melodies from the harp of God.

Are you in trouble?

Go up and face this wind on the heath. Bare your head to it, open your lungs to it. Let it steal about your heart, with its messages of greatness, and futurity, and hope.

Are you listless and discouraged?

Go up and breathe this wind on the heath, and it will sting to life the ambition and resolve in you, and in it you will hear, if you listen aright, the saga of victory.

"In sickness, Jasper?"

"There's the sun and stars, brother."

"In blindness, Jasper?"

"There's the wind on the heath, brother: if I could only feel that, I would gladly live forever. Dosta, we'll now go to the tents and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."

Tommy and the poet were bound for some ruins which lay across Becklington common and beyond the downs.

Harvest ruled the world, and the fields in the valley and on the hillside were dotted with stooks and stacks.

It was a day on which it was good to be alive, and, if a little subdued, yet they were both in good spirits.

The poet's latest volume, ahead of the autumn rush of poetry and fiction, had been favourably criticised.

It was stronger, happier, more real, said the critics, than any other from his pen.

If not great, said they, it was at any rate graceful, and even, in some places, vigorous. Therefore was the poet happy.

And Tommy—well, there was the sun and the wind, good red blood in his arteries, and no care in his heart—and though he could not have told you so, these, no doubt, were strong enough reasons for the buoyancy of his spirit.

As they climbed the green side of the downs they met a shepherd singing, a happy, irresponsible fellow, with his coat over his head, and his sleek flock browsing round him.

And as they passed him with a welcome, the poet remembered some lines which he repeated to Tommy:

Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you—the song that I would sing.
Wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill,
Little lazy villages, sleeping in the vale,
Greatness overhead
The flock's contented tread
An' trample o' the morning wind adown the open trail.
Bitter storms o' winter-time ringing down the range,
Angel nights above the hill, beautiful with rest,
I would sing o' Life,
O' Enterprise, and Strife,
O' Love along the upland road, an' God beyond the crest.
An' this should be my matin song—magic o' the down,
Mystery, an' majesty, an' wistfulness, an' hope,
I would sing the lay
O' Destiny an' Day,
As morning mounts the hill with me, an' summer storms the slope.
But this would be my vesper song—best at last is Peace
Whispered where the valleys lie, all deep in dying gold,
Stealing through the gloam
To speed the shepherd home
With one last dreamy echo o' the music in the fold.
Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you—the song that I would sing.

"Jolly good," said Tommy, easiest of critics, and the poet smiled.

"Ah, Tommy," he said, "I wish you were a publisher."

Over the crest of the downs rose a thin wisp of blue smoke; and as they descended on the other side, some dark-eyed children looked out of a little brown tent.

They reminded the poet of Jasper and his company of Pharaoh's children, and he repeated to Tommy the conversation I have touched upon.

Tommy's eyes sparkled.

"That's good," he said, approvingly. "Just what a fellow feels, you know."

They walked on across the green springy turf, and for a time both were silent.

There was something, too, in the day and its purity that was speaking to Tommy.

Presently he spoke, hesitatingly.

"I—I was drunk last night, wasn't I?" he asked anxiously.

The poet affected not to have heard the question, but Tommy persisted.

"Yes."

Tommy sighed.

"I say," he said, after a pause, "I—I'd have licked that fellow hollow if my head hadn't been so jolly queer."

The poet looked at him, curiously.

"I expect you would," he said.

Tommy took a deep breath, and looked straight at the poet.

"I'll never touch it again—never," he said slowly.

They shook hands there on the hillside.

Thus it was, and for this reason, that Tommy took upon himself a vow that he has to my best belief never broken.

"Ah, but the motive?" you ask.

Well, maybe the shrug of your shoulder is justified, but, after all, the result was brought about by nature, who seldom errs, and to the poet, who, in spite of all, was really a simple soul—the result was abundantly gratifying.

As they walked home in the evening, Tommy turned to the poet.

"I say, what was it that gipsy fellow said—at the end, you know?"

"Dosta, we'll now go to the tent and put on the gloves, and I'll try to make you feel what a sweet thing it is to be alive, brother."

Tommy looked grimly into the twilight.

"It would be a jolly good thing to teach that fellow at the Grange," he said, "only I'm blowed if I'll take any gloves."