at the base of the sea-wall boomed and tossed its spray on the wind
fanning his face. And while he chanted, his serious eyes devoured the
blue leagues right away to the horizon.

The drovers at the far end of the compartment turned their faces inward
and grinned. The middle-aged man looked across at me behind the boy's
back with half a smile and resumed his reading. The mother laughed
apologetically--

"'Tis his way. He won't be so crazed for it in a few weeks' time, I
reckon. He's goin' up to Bristol to be bound apprentice to his uncle.
His uncle's master of a sailing ship."

But the boy did not hear. There are four or five tunnels in the red
sandstone between Teignmouth and Dawlish, and through these he sang on
in a low repressed voice, which broke out high and clear and strong as
we swept again into the large wind and sunshine. At Dawlish Station we
drew up for a minute, and a porter on the up platform nodded to one of
the drovers and asked, "What's the matter with 'ee, in there?"
"Nothin', nothin'; we've got a smokin'-concert on," said the drover.
Across the rails a group waiting for the down train stood and stared at
the boy, whispered, and smiled; and I can still recall the fascinated
gaze of a plump urchin of six as he gripped with one hand a wooden spade
and with the other his mother's skirt.

But the boy sang on heedless, and still sang on as we left Dawlish
behind. There was no jubilation in his chant, but through it all there
ran and rang out from time to time a note of high challenge. Perhaps I
read too much in it, for in the heart of a boy many thoughts sing
together before they come to birth,--and to the destinies we see so