There’s a gleam amid the darkness, and there’s sight amid the blindness,
And the glow of hope is kindled by the breath of human kindness,
And a phosphorescent glimmer gilds the spaces of the gloom,
Like the sea-lights in the midnight, or the ghost-lights of the tomb,
Or the livid lamps of madness in the charnel-house of doom
—­As Time rolls on!

And amidst the weary wand’rers on the mountain crags belated
There’s a hush of expectation, and the sobbings are abated,
For a word of hope is spoken by a prophet versed in pain,
Who tells of rugged pathways down to fields of golden grain,
Where the sun is ever shining, and the skies their blessings rain
—­As Time rolls on!

Where the leafy chimes of gladness in the tree-tops aye are ringing,
Answering to the joyous chorus which the birds are ever singing;
Where the seas of yellow plenty toss with music in the wind;
Where the purple vines are laden, and the groves with fruit are lined;
Where all grief is but a mem’ry, and all pain is left behind
—­As Time rolls on!

But it lies beyond a desert ’cross which hosts of Death are marching,
And a hot sirocco wanders under skies all red and parching,
Lined with skeletons of armies through the centuries fierce and acre
Bones of heroes and of sages marking Time’s lapse year by year,
Unmoistened by the night-dews ’mid the solitudes of fear
—­As Time rolls on!

* Kindly written by Mr. F. J. Broomfield for insertion here.

“Well done, Arty”! cried Ford.  “I’d like to do a few ‘thumbnails’ for that.”

“Let me see it, please!  Why don’t you say ‘rushes’ for ‘wanders’ in the last verse, Arty?” asked George, reaching out his hand for the slips.

“Go away!” exclaimed Mrs. Stratton, holding them out of reach.  “Can’t you wait two minutes before you begin your sub-editing tricks?  Josie, keep him in order!”

“He’s a disgrace,” replied Josie.  “Don’t pay any heed to him, Arty!  They’ll cut up your verses soon enough, and they’re just lovely.”

The others laughed, all talking at once, commending, criticising, comparing.  Arty laughed and joked and quizzed, the liveliest of them all.  Ned stared at him in astonishment.  He seemed like somebody else.  He discussed his own verses with a strange absence of egotism.  Evidently he was used to standing fire.

“The metaphor in that third verse seems to me rather forced,” said Stratton finally.  “And I think George is right.  ‘Rushes’ does sound better than ‘wanders.’  I like that ‘rudely punctuated’ line, but I think I’d go right through it again if it was mine.”

“I think I will, too,” answered Arty.  “There are half-a-dozen alterations I want to make now.  I’ll touch it up to-morrow.  It’ll keep till then.”

“That sort of stuff would keep for years if it wasn’t for the Scrutineer,” said Stratton.  “Very few papers care to publish it nowadays.”