American Poetry

The Lost Pibroch. day is my story, for they have not the Lost Pibroch. It is of the three best, who were not bad, in a place I ken - Half Town that stands in the wood. You may rove for a thousand years on league-long brogues, or hurry on fairy wings from isle to isle and deep to deep, and find no equal to that same Half Town. It is not the splendour of it, nor the riches of its folk ; it is not any great routh of field or sheep-fank, but the scented winds of it, and the comfort of the pine - trees round and about it on every hand.
My mother used to -be saying (when I had the notion of fairy tales), that once on a time, when the woods were young and thin, there was a road through them, and the pick of children of a country-side wandered among them into this place to play at sheilings. Up grew the trees, fast and tall, and shut the little folks in so that the way out they could not get if they had the mind for it. But never an