the spoken, and the second the sung, or high, resounded word,
quickened by irrepressible emotion, for its unit. By the
same economy, wrought upon by man's vocal powers, by the
law of kind, and by the very law of sound itself, it came about
that in the second mode the increased vibrations called inevit-
ably for the aid and sustenance of rhythm. Later, when
men arrived at the writing down of words, it was a matter
of course that the two modes should perpetuate themselves
as prose and verse, which brings us down to the rough formula
that prose was at the first beginning of literature written speech,
and verse written song.

But we have now to go behind our books, to the poetry
that is before literature and is unaffected by the writing habit,
and to do this effectively we are driven to countries where
the folk-note can be heard in less diluted or less sophisticated
verse than we get it in English. In the East, among the Arab
tribes, or in Japan or Malay, we surprise it in something like
its original wild state, recapture the primordial atom we look
for in a savage love-song, child's rhyme, or lullaby like the
Japanese--

"Nénne ko yo, Nénne ko yo!"

which might have been sung by the very first mother who
put babe asleep. Here, for instance, is a Coorg rhyme, collected
in Southern India, ¹ which gives us the savage use of iteration
and alliteration in its crudity, echoing the crow's "caw"--

"Kak, kakeka!
Kakera mangale kek?"

which is, being interpreted, something like--

"Call the crow's sister:
When is the crow's wedding?
To-morrow, or Sunday?"

Or in a Rain-Charm: e.g.--

"While Benga doth praise thee,
And Padi signs to thee,
Stop, rain, stop!"

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