creek. And I dare say that it'll make no material difference whether
the dolphins gobble him or the catfish and eels nibble him up. It's
all the same in the long run. Mention this to your murderer when you
speak to him, will you? Now, I'll show you why this thing takes all
the heart out of me. In his poem entitled "Longings" he uses this
language:

"Oh, sing to me, darling, a sweet song to-night,
While I bask in the smile of thine eyes,
While I kiss those dear lips in the dark silent room,
And whisper my saddening good-byes."

Now, you see how it is yourself, Grady, don't you? How is she going to
sing to him while he kisses those lips, and how is he going to whisper
good-bye? Isn't that awful slush? Now, isn't it? And then, if the room
is dark, what I want to know is how he's going to tell whether her
eyes are smiling or not? Mr. Grady, either the man is insane or I am;
and if your butcher is going to stab Markley, you'll oblige me by
telling him that I want him to jab him deep, and maybe fill him up
with poison or something to make it absolutely certain.

"'I know that when he sent me that poem about "The Unknown" I parsed
it, and examined it with a microscope, and sent it around to a
chemist's to be analyzed, but hang me if I know yet what he's driving
at when he says,

"The uffish spectral gleaming of that wild resounding clang
Came hooting o'er the margin of the dusky moors that hang
Like palls of inky darkness where the hoarse, weird raven calls,
And the bhang-drunk Hindoo staggers on and on until he falls."