II.

“Who are you? Whence came you? What place are you going to?” “O, we have dwelt over-long in this land. The people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too; Nothing at all but they now understand; We are daily vanishing under the thunder Of some huge engine or iron wonder; That iron—O, it has entered our souls!” “——Your souls? O, Goles! You queer little drolls! Do you mean——?” “Good Gaffer, do aid us with speed, For our time, like our stature, is short indeed! And a very long way we have to go, Eight or ten thousand miles or so, Hither and thither, and to and fro; With our pots and pans, And little gold cans; But our light caravans Run swifter than man’s!”