It was near evening, the room was cold br Half dark; Uncle Ben's brass bullet-mould br And powder-horn and Major Bogan's face br Above the fire in the half-light plainly said: br There's naught to kill but the animated dead. br Horn nor mould nor major follows the chase. br Being cold I urged Lytle to the fire br In the blank twilight with not much left untold br By two old friends when neither's a great liar. br We sat down evenly in the smoky chill. br There's precious little to say between day and dark, br Perhaps a few words on the implacable will br Of time sailing like a magic barque br Or something as fine for the amenities, br Till dusk seals the window, the fire grows bright, br And the wind saws the hill with a swarm of bees. br Now meditating a little on the firelight br We heard the darkness grapple with the night br And give an old man's valedictory wheeze br From his westward breast between his polar jaws; br Then Lytle asked: Who are the dead? br Who are the living and the dead? br And nothing more was said.