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Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep, and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.

For ancient king and elvish lord,
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day,
To claim our long-forgotten gold.

Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves.

The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale;
Then dragon’s ire more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;
The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the misty mountains grim
To dungeons deep and caverns dim
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him!

Towards the end of the novel, after the slaying of the dragon another version of the song is sung. The lyrics as shown in Chapter XV (“The Gathering of the Clouds”) are:

Under the Mountain dark and tall
The King has come unto his hall!
His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,
And ever so his foes shall fall.

The sword is sharp, the spear is long,
The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;
The heart is bold that looks on gold;
The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells
In places deep, where dark things sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.

On silver necklaces they strung
The light of stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, from twisted wire
The melody of harps they wrung.

The mountain throne once more is freed!
O! wandering folk, the summons heed!
Come haste! Come haste! across the waste!
The king of friend and kin has need.

Now call we over mountains cold,
‘Come back unto the caverns old’!
Here at the Gates the king awaits,
His hands are rich with gems and gold.

The king is come unto his hall
Under the Mountain dark and tall.
The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,
And ever so our foes shall fall!

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What Makes Some Letters Pay?

What is there about some letters that makes them so much more effective than others?

A letter may have perfect diction, a finished style; it may bristle with attention getters and interest arousers; it may follow every known rule; yet when it reaches the Hall of Judgement where the reader sits and decides its fate, it may find itself cast into the hell of wastebasketdom, while some screed lacking any pretense or polish or the finer arts of correspondence, blandly picks up the bacon and walks home with it. Why?

Because getting the results you set out to accomplish with a letter is no more than a rule of thumb than is landing a fish with a rod and hook. You know how often you’ve seen some ragged urchin pull in fish after fish with the crudest of lines, when a “sportsman” near by, though armed with every piscatorial lure known to man,, could not even raise a bite!

It’s a matter of bait, that’s all. The youngster knew what the fish would bite on, and he gave it to them. Result? A mess of fine fish for dinner. The “sportsman” offered them what he had been led to believe what fish ought to have — and they turned up their fishy noses at it.

Hundred of books have doubtless been written about the fine art of fishing, but the whole idea is contained in that one sentence: “What bait will they bite on?” Thou — sands of articles have been written on how to use letters to bring you what you want, but the meat of them all can be compressed into two sentences: “What is the bait that will temp your reader? How can you tie up the thing you offer with that bait?”

For the ultimate purpose of every business letter simmers down to this:

The reader of this letter wants certain things. The desire for them is consciously or unconsciously, the dominant idea in his mind all the time.

You want him to do a certain definite thing for you. How can you tie this up to the thing he wants, in such a way that the doing of it will bring him a step nearer to his goal?

It matters not whether you are trying to sell him a rain-coat, making him a proposal of marriage, or asking him to pay a bill. In that, to pay a bill, to get be each case, you want him to do something for you. Why should he? Only because of the hope that the doing of it will bring him nearer his heart’s desire or the fear that his failure to do it will remove that heart’s desire farther from him.

Put yourself in his place. If you were deep in discussion with a friend over some matter that meant a great deal to both of you, and a stranger came up, slapped you on the back and said: “See here, Mister, I have a fine coat I want to sell you!” What would you do? Examine the coat with interest, and thank him for the privilege or to kick him and the coat down the nearest stairs, and blister both with a few choice adjectives in the process?

Well, much the same thing happens when you approach a man by mail. He is deep in a discussion with himself over ways and means of getting certain things that mean a great deal to him. You butt in (that is the only term that describes it) and blandly tell him to forget to those things that so deeply concern him and consider your proposition instead. Is it any wonder he promptly tells you to head in, and lacking the ability to reach you, takes it out on your letter instead?

After you have run up front half a dozen times to sell a couple of stogies

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