“I have several books.  I got one on a stall—­a very good one about heroes.  It has a lot in it about the Norsemen.  If you come in you can see my books.  You might have some tea.  I put the kettle ready before I went out.”

I stepped into the hut, and found it warm and cosy.  A cake of barley bread was on the table, and a little black teapot stood there also.  There was no furniture but a low wooden bed, one chair, a settle, and a broad shelf.  On the shelf was a slate scrabbled all over with geometrical figures, and one of these figures was a parabola with two tangents drawn touching.  This puzzled me much.  I sat down to warm my hands and my half-frozen face, and when I felt comfortable I said,

“Do you read conic sections, young gentleman?”

His bonnet was off now, and I saw his broad, compact forehead and his massive temples.  He looked capable of reading anything.

He replied, quite simply: 

“Oh, yes!  I read geometrical conics.”

“And did you teach yourself?”

“Yes.  It isn’t hard after you’ve got over the sixth book of Euclid.”

I grew more and more puzzled and interested.  We had some tea, which made me feel positively luxurious, and then I looked at the backs of the books.  There were “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” and “Tappan on the Will.”  Then came Shakespeare, a shilling edition of Keats, Drew’s “Conic Sections,” Hall’s “Differential Calculus,” Baker’s “Land Surveying,” Carlyle’s “Heroes,” a fat volume of Shelley, “The Antiquary,” White’s “Selborne,” Bonnycastle’s “Algebra,” and five volumes of “The Tales of the Borders.”

“You have a capital lot of books, my man.  I suppose you know them all by heart, pretty well?”

“Yes, I know them; not by heart exactly, but I’ve had a lot of time these two winters, and I’ve gone over them and written about them.”

“Well, which do you like best of all?”

“My fancy’s all for mathematics, but I like poetry.”

“Ah!  And I suppose you write poetry—­don’t you, now?”

He was not abashed—­he said in an ordinary tone, “Very often.  It doesn’t seem good, but I go on at it.  It pleases me and puts away the time now and then.  There’s some in that copy-book at your side.”

I know what a fearful thing youthful poetry is, and I felt a discreet dread.  But I opened the book and saw that the young man had been writing verses in a large strong hand.  I did not read much.  There was one pair of broken quatrains which I remember:—­

      “Though toil is heavy I’ll not be sad,
       I’ll rest content while my pulses beat;
     If I work, and love, and trust and be glad,
       Perchance the world will come to my feet. 
     But if no fortune ever be mine,
       If my bones on this grey hill-side must lie,
     As long as I breathe I’ll not repine,
       I’ve gladly lived and I’ll gladly die.”

“You’re not very particular about the form of your verses,” said I.