know. And he was doing it for her sake, that she might be saved. Upon himself he had taken the hardships and dangers of the journey. That was always the way of a strong man. He had not asked the constable to go, while he remained behind. Her heart thrilled at the idea, and she longed to tell him how proud she was of him.
Slowly the weary hours dragged by, and when at length the dawn of a new day dispelled the blackness of night, the storm slackened. The wind gradually died down, and the snow ceased to fall. The constable replenished the pile of wood while Marion prepared their meagre breakfast. How tired they both were of moose meat, and yet there was nothing else to keep life within their bodies.
“Meat! meat! meat!” Rolfe exclaimed, as he staggered in and threw down an armful of dry sticks. “I shall write a poem about that some day, and make the word rhyme with ‘beat’ and ‘feet.’ “Why, I am inspired now, listen to this:
“Meat! meat! meat!
It keeps me on my feet
When I would go dead beat,
And so I eat, eat, eat.”
Marion smiled as she handed the constable a piece of broiled steak.
“Perhaps this will inspire you to take another masterpiece,” she bantered. “I am very thankful to be able to contribute something to the work of a genius. Poets must eat, I suppose.”
“Right you are,” Rolfe replied. They often wrote about eating. I remember what Bobbie Burns said:
