VII.

It 'pears to me that them solemn hills Beckin' them stars so big an' calm, An' whisper, "Make tracks this way, my friends, We've ring'd in here a specimen man; He's here alone, so we'll take a look Thro' his ganzy an' vest, an' his blood an' bone, An post ourselves as to whether his heart Is _flesh_, or a rotten, made-up stone!"