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'A lawyer！ O Lord！' said Ericson。
'Why not？' asked Robert； in some wonderment； for he could not
imagine Ericson acting from mere popular prejudice or fancy。
'Just think of spending one's life in an atmosphere of squabbles。
It's all very well when one gets to be a judge and dispense
justice； butwell； it's not for me。 I could not do the best for my
clients。 And a lawyer has nothing to do with the kingdom of
heavenonly with his clients。 He must be a party…man。 He must
secure for one so often at the loss of the rest。 My duty and my
conscience would always be at strife。'
'Then what will you be； Mr。 Ericson？'
'To tell the truth； I would rather be a watchmaker than anything
else I know。 I might make one watch that would go right； I suppose；
if I lived long enough。 But no one would take an apprentice of my
age。 So I suppose I must be a tutor； knocked about from one house
to another； patronized by ex…pupils； and smiled upon as harmless by
mammas and sisters to the end of the chapter。 And then something of
a pauper's burial； I suppose。 Che sara sara。'
Ericson had sunk into one of his worst moods。 But when he saw
Robert looking unhappy； he changed his tone； and would bewhat he
could not bemerry。
'But what's the use of talking about it？' he said。 'Get your fiddle；
man； and play The Wind that shakes the Barley。'
'No； Mr。 Ericson；' answered Robert； 'I have no heart for the fiddle。
I would rather have some poetry。'
'Oh！Poetry！' returned Ericson； in a tone of contemptyet not very
hearty contempt。
'We're gaein' awa'； Mr。 Ericson；' said Robert； 'an' the Lord 'at we
ken naething aboot alane kens whether we'll ever meet again i' this
place。 And sae'
'True enough； my boy；' interrupted Ericson。 'I have no need to
trouble myself about the future。 I believe that is the real secret
of it after all。 I shall never want a profession or anything else。'
'What do you mean； Mr。 Ericson？' asked Robert； in half…defined
terror。
'I mean； my boy； that I shall not live long。 I know thatthank
God！'
'How do you know it？'
'My father died at thirty； and my mother at six…and…twenty； both of
the same disease。 But that's not how I know it。'
'How do you know it then？'
Ericson returned no answer。 He only said
'Death will be better than life。 One thing I don't like about it
though；' he added； 'is the coming on of unconsciousness。 I cannot
bear to lose my consciousness even in sleep。 It is such a terrible
thing！'
'I suppose that's ane o' the reasons that we canna be content
withoot a God；' responded Robert。 'It's dreidfu' to think even o'
fa'in' asleep withoot some ane greater an' nearer than the me
watchin' ower 't。 But I'm jist sayin' ower again what I hae read in
ane o' your papers； Mr。 Ericson。 Jist lat me luik。'
Venturing more than he had ever yet ventured； Robert rose and went
to the cupboard where Ericson's papers lay。 His friend did not
check him。 On the contrary； he took the papers from his hand； and
searched for the poem indicated。
'I'm not in the way of doing this sort of thing； Robert；' he said。
'I know that；' answered Robert。
And Ericson read。
SLEEP。
Oh； is it Death that comes
To have a foretaste of the whole？
To…night the planets and the stars
Will glimmer through my window…bars；
But will not shine upon my soul。
For I shall lie as dead；
Though yet I am above the ground；
All passionless； with scarce a breath；
With hands of rest and eyes of death；
I shall be carried swiftly round。
Or if my life should break
The idle night with doubtful gleams
Through mossy arches will I go；
Through arches ruinous and low；
And chase the true and false in dreams。
Why should I fall asleep？
When I am still upon my bed；
The moon will shine； the winds will rise；
And all around and through the skies
The light clouds travel o'er my head。
O； busy； busy things！
Ye mock me with your ceaseless life；
For all the hidden springs will flow；
And all the blades of grass will grow；
When I have neither peace nor strife。
And all the long night through；
The restless streams will hurry by；
And round the lands； with endless roar；
The white waves fall upon the shore；
And bit by bit devour the dry。
Even thus； but silently；
Eternity； thy tide shall flow
And side by side with every star
Thy long…drawn swell shall bear me far；
An idle boat with none to row。
My senses fail with sleep；
My heart beats thick； the night is noon；
And faintly through its misty folds
I hear a drowsy clock that holds
Its converse with the waning moon。
Oh； solemn mystery！
That I should be so closely bound
With neither terror nor constraint
Without a murmur of complaint；
And lose myself upon such ground！
'Rubbish！' said Ericson； as he threw down the sheets； disgusted with
his own work； which so often disappoints the writer； especially if
he is by any chance betrayed into reading it aloud。
'Dinna say that； Mr。 Ericson；' returned Robert。 'Ye maunna say that。
Ye hae nae richt to lauch at honest wark； whether it be yer ain or
ony ither body's。 The poem noo'
'Don't call it a poem；' interrupted Ericson。 'It's not worthy of the
name。'
'I will ca' 't a poem；' persisted Robert； 'for it's a poem to me；
whatever it may be to you。 An' hoo I ken 'at it's a poem is jist
this： it opens my een like music to something I never saw afore。'
'What is that？' asked Ericson； not sorry to be persuaded that there
might after all be some merit in the productions painfully despised
of himself。
'Jist this： it's only whan ye dinna want to fa' asleep 'at it luiks
fearsome to ye。 An' maybe the fear o' death comes i' the same way：
we're feared at it 'cause we're no a'thegither ready for 't； but
whan the richt time comes； it'll be as nat'ral as fa'in' asleep whan
we're doonricht sleepy。 Gin there be a God to ca' oor Father in
heaven； I'm no thinkin' that he wad to sae mony bonny tunes pit a
scraich for the hinder end。 I'm thinkin'； gin there be onything in
't avaye ken I'm no sayin'； for I dinna kenwe maun jist lippen
till him to dee dacent an' bonny； an' nae sic strange awfu' fash
aboot it as some fowk wad mak a religion o' expeckin'。'
Ericson looked at Robert with admiration mingled with something akin
to merriment。
'One would think it was your grandfather holding forth； Robert；' he
said。 'How came you to think of such things at your age？'
'I'm thinkin'；' answered Robert； 'ye warna muckle aulder nor mysel'
whan ye took to sic things； Mr。 Ericson。 But； 'deed； maybe my
luckie…daddie （grandfather） pat them i' my heid； for I had a heap
ado wi' his fiddle for a while。 She's deid noo。'
Not understanding him； Ericson began to question； and out came the
story of the violins。 They talked on till the last of their coals
was burnt out； and the