7 SEPTEMBER 1907, Page 17

FROM THE CABIN DOOR. THERE' a snowy flock in the

moon-black meadow, An' white sheep-mothers dim in the shadow, An' a field beyont that's grey. An' by it There' the wide lake lyin' could an' quiet.

There' a high-hill shore. It's a wood of hushes. There's ebon islands ringed with rushes. There' a cradle o' cloud, an' a star-child sleepin', An' the edge o' the mist it's a-comin' creepin', creepin'.