He had a number of pictures on hand; most of them were too large and ambitious for his skill. He was the sort of painter who can paint leaves better than trees. He used to spend a long time on a single leaf, trying to catch its shape, and its sheen, and the glistening of dewdrops on its edges. Yet he wanted to paint a whole tree, with all of its leaves in the same style, and all of them different. There was one picture in particular which bothered him. It had begun with a leaf caught in the wind, and it became a tree; and the tree grew, sending out innumerable branches, and thrusting out the most fantastic roots. Strange birds came and settled on the twigs and had to be attended to. Then all round the Tree, and behind it, through the gaps in the leaves and boughs, a country began to open out; and there were glimpses of a forest marching over the land, and of mountains tipped with snow. Niggle lost interest in his other pictures; or else he took them and tacked them on to the edges of h...

“This out of all will remain—    They have lived and have tossed: So much of the game will be gain,    Though the gold of the dice has been lost.” They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks.  They were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured.  They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders.  Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs.  Each man carried a rifle.  They walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground. “I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that’s layin’ in that cache of ourn,” said the second man. His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless.  He spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed over...