Comrade Snooks informed our representative that he was conducting negotiations on behalf of the employers, that is to say the ordinary members of the Trades Unions.  He stated with a full sense of responsibility that if the Leaders went on strike all the resources of the Unions would be employed against them.  On the whole the Leaders had good berths—­easy work and high pay.  Their demands were becoming absolutely unreasonable and must be opposed.  Their methods of enforcing their demands too were to be deprecated.  Only the preceding evening one of the Trades Union Loaders had become abusive and broken one of his (Comrade Snooks’) windows.  That sort of thing was disgusting, and in the interests of decency and order must be put down.  In case of need police protection would be applied for.

* * * * *

A THEME FOR SIR HENRY NEWBOLT.

    “When HAWKER came swooping from the West.”

* * * * *

COAL.

  Dark jewel from the zone of Erebus! 
    What son of Dis first dragged thee from thy lair
  To be a twofold benison to us
    Poor mortals shivering in the upper air
  When Phoebus nose-dives in his solar bus
    Beneath the waves and goes to shine elsewhere? 
  Or if some monstrous progeny of Tellus
  Found thou wast Power and made the high gods jealous
    I do not know (I’ve lost my Lempriere),
  Nor if the fate that thereupon befell us
    Was for each load of coal two loads of care;
  Yet oft I wonder if beyond the Styx
  The price of thee is three pounds ten and six.

  Sun worshipper am I, and serve the gods
    Of stream and meadow and the flowery lea,
  Of winding woodways where the loosestrife nods
    In summer and in spring the anemone,
  And thymy sheep-paths where the ploughboy plods
    Home to his frugal but sufficient tea. 
  Not for a crown, grim coal, would I pursue thee
  In subterranean passages and hew thee
    Mid poisonous fumes and draughts of tepid tea. 
  Yet were I all undone should I eschew thee;
    Someone, in short, must dig thee up for me;
  And, if he deems it worth a pound a day,
  Well, who am I to say the fellow nay?

  The sailor heaves on Biscay’s restless bay;
    His breeks are tarry but his heart is kind;
  The farmer grouses all the livelong day
    Howe’er with untaxed oof his jeans are lined;
  The shop-assistant works for paltry pay,
    Though of all manners his are most refined;
  But all of them can quaff the undefiled
  Sweet air of heaven and gaze with thankful eyelid
    On azure skies and feel the unfettered wind,
  Or in the park on Sunday, in a high lid,
    Or through the equinoctials blowing blind,
  Or at cold milking-time when dawns are red
  And birds awake and I remain in bed.