A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound.

_P. B. Sh.e.l.ley_

CLXVIII

_DORA_

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often look'd at them, And often thought, 'I'll make them man and wife.'

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said: 'My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die: And I have set my heart upon a match.

Now therefore look to Dora; she is well To look to; thrifty too, beyond her age.

She is my brother's daughter: he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, For many years.' But William answer'd short: 'I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.' Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: 'You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!

But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to't; Consider, William; take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack And nevermore darken my doors again!'

But William answer'd madly, bit his lips, And broke away. The more he look'd at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd His niece and said: 'My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law.'

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 'It cannot be: my uncle's mind will change.'

And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he pa.s.s'd his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest-time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: 'I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you: You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest: let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that, when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew.

Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it on his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.

Then when the farmer pa.s.s'd into the field He spied her, and he left his men at work And came and said, 'Where were you yesterday?

Whose child is that? what are you doing here?'

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answer'd softly, 'This is William's child.'

'And did I not,' said Allan, 'did I not Forbid you, Dora?' Dora said again: 'Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone.'

And Allan said: 'I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there.

I must be taught my duty, and by you!

You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more.'

So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field.

More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, And the sun fell and all the land was dark.

Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To G.o.d that help'd her in her widowhood.

And Dora said: 'My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more.'

Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother: therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; And if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child until he grows Of age to help us.'

So the women kiss'd Each other, and set out and reach'd the farm.

The door was off the latch; they peep'd and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him: and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.

Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan sat him down, and Mary said: 'O Father!--if you let me call me so-- I never came a-begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well; O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me.

I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: "G.o.d bless him!" he said, "and may he never know The troubles I have gone through!" then he turn'd His face and pa.s.s'd--unhappy that I am!

But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before.'

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room, And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- 'I have been to blame--to blame! I have kill'd my son!

I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son!

May G.o.d forgive me!--I have been to blame.

Kiss me, my children!'

Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times, And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.

So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

_A. Tennyson_

CLXIX

_A WITCH_

_Spoken by a Countryman_

There's that old hag Moll Brown, look, see, just past!

I wish the ugly sly old witch Would tumble over in the ditch; I wouldn't pick her out not very fast.

I don't think she's belied, 'tis clear's the sun That she's a witch if ever there was one.

Yes, I do know just hereabout of two Or three folk that have learnt what Moll can do.

She did, one time, a pretty deal of harm To Farmer Gruff's folks, down at Lower Farm.

One day, you know, they happen'd to offend her, And not a little to their sorrow, Because they would not give or lend her The thing she came to beg or borrow; And so, you know, they soon began to find That she'd a-left her evil wish behind.

She soon bewitch'd them; and she had such power, That she did make their milk and ale turn sour, And addle all the eggs their fowls did lay; They couldn't fetch the b.u.t.ter in the churn, And cheeses soon began to turn All back again to curds and whey.

The little pigs a-running with the sow Did sicken somehow, n.o.body knew how, And fall, and turn their snouts towards the sky, And only give one little grunt and die; And all the little ducks and chicken Were death-struck while they were a-pickin'

Their food, and fell upon their head, And flapp'd their wings and dropp'd down dead.

They couldn't fat the calves; they wouldn't thrive; They couldn't save their lambs alive; Their sheep all took the rot and gave no wool; Their horses fell away to skin and bones, And got so weak they couldn't pull A half a peck of stones; The dog got dead-alive and drowsy, The cat fell sick and wouldn't mousey; And if the wretched souls went up to bed The hag did come and ride them all half dead.

They used to keep her out o' the house 'tis true, A-nailing up at door a horse's shoe; And I've a-heard the farmer's wife did try To drive a needle or a pin In through her old hard wither'd skin And draw her blood, a-coming by; But she could never fetch a drop, She bent the pin and broke the needle's top Against her skin, you know, and that, in course, Did only make the hag bewitch them worse.

_W. Barnes_

CLXX

_NURSERY RHYMES_

1

Jenny Wren fell sick; Upon a merry time, In came Robin Redbreast, And brought her sops of wine

Eat well of the sop, Jenny, Drink well of the wine; Thank you Robin kindly, You shall be mine.

Jenny she got well, And stood upon her feet, And told Robin plainly She loved him not a bit.

Robin, being angry, Hopp'd on a twig, Saying, Out upon you, Fye upon you, bold-faced jig!