Tommy watched the process with some curiosity. Then he stole to the window, for all the world was calling him.

But he paused with one foot on the first step, as the poet looked up from his ma.n.u.script.

"How do you like this?" he asked eagerly:

Oh the daffodils sing of my lady's gown, The hyacinths dream of her eyes, And the wandering breezes across the down, The harmonies dropt from the skies, Are full of the song of the love that swept My citadel by surprise.

Oh the woods they are bright with my lady's voice, The paths they are sweet with her tread, And the kiss of her gown makes the lawn rejoice, The violet lift her head.

Yet, lady, I know not if I must smile Or weep for the days long sped.

The poet blinked rapturously through his gla.s.ses at Tommy, listening respectfully, by the window.

"They're jolly good--but I say, who is she?"

The poet seemed a little puzzled.

"I am afraid I do not comprehend you," he said.

"The lady," observed Tommy. "I didn't know you were in love, you know, or anything of that sort."

The poet rose to his feet, with some dignity.

"I am not in love, Thomas," he said. "I--I never even think about such things." Tommy turned back.

"I say, if you're going to the post-office with that will you buy me some elastic--for my catty, you know?" he said.

Just then the housekeeper entered, and Tommy went out upon the lawn.

"Please, sir, there's a friend o' Mister Thomas's a settin' in the kitchen, an' 'e's bin there a hower, pretty nigh--an' 'is talk--it fairly makes me blood rise, and me pore stomach that sour--an', please, 'e wants ter know if Mister Thomas is ready to go after them rats 'e was talkin' of, an' if the Cholmondeleys, which is me blood relations, 'ad 'eard 'im--Lord."

Mrs. Chundle wiped her brow at this appalling supposition, and the poet gazed helplessly at her.

"Did you say a friend of Mr. Thomas's?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, an' that common 'e--'e's almost took the shine off of the plates."

"Dear, dear! how very--very peculiar, Mrs. Chundle."

A genial, red countenance appeared at the doorway.

"Beg pawdon, sir, but the young gemman 'e wanted me to show 'im a nest or two o' rats down Becklington stream, sir--rare fat uns they be, sir, too."

"I--I do not approve of sport--of slaying innocent beings--even if they be but rodents; I must ask you to leave me."

The poet waved his hand.

The rubicund sportsman looked disappointed. "Beg pawdon, sir, I'm sure.

Thought 's 'ow it were all right, sir."

"I do not blame you, my good man. I merely protest against the ruling spirit of destruction which our country worships so deplorably. You may go."

And all this while Tommy stood bare-headed on the lawn, filling his lungs with the morning's sweetness, and feeling the grip of its appeal in his heart and blood and limbs. A st.u.r.dy little figure he was, clad in a short jacket and attenuated flannel knickerbockers which left his brown knees bare above his stockings.

The blood in his round cheeks shone red beneath the tan, and there were some freckles at the bridge of his nose. In his hand was a battered wide-awake hat--his usual headgear--and the origin of his sobriquet--for he will, I imagine, be known as Tommy Wideawake until the crack of doom, and, maybe, even after that.

With all his appreciation of the day, however, no word of the conversation just recorded missed his ears, and I regret to say that when the red-cheeked intruder turned a moment at the garden gate, Tommy's right eyelashes trembled a moment upon his cheek while his lips parted over some white teeth for the smallest fraction of a second.

Then he kicked viciously at a daisy and blinked up at the friendly sun.

The poet stepped out on the lawn beside him with a worried wrinkle on his forehead.

"I feel rather upset," he said.

"Let's go for a walk," suggested Tommy.

The poet considered a moment.

An epic, which lagged somewhat, held out spectral arms to him from the recesses of his writing-desk, but the birds' spring songs were too winsome for prolonged resistance, and to their wooing the poet capitulated.

"Let us come," he said, and they stepped through the wicker gate into the water-meadows.

The Becklington brook is only a thin thread here, but lower down it receives tributaries from two adjoining valleys and becomes a stream of some importance, turning, indeed, a couple of mills, before it reaches the Arrowley, which enters the Isis.

The day was hot--one of those early heralds of June so often encountered in late April, and the meadows basked dreamily in the sun, while from the hills came a dull glow of budding gorse.

The poet was full of fancies, and as the house grew farther behind them, and the path led ever more deeply among copse and field, his natural calm soon rea.s.serted itself. From time to time he would jot down a happy phrase or quaint expression, enlarging thereon to Tommy, who listened patiently enough.

Plop.

A lazy ripple cut the surface of the stream, and another, and another.

Tommy lifted a warning hand and held his breath.

Yes, sure enough, there was a brown nose stemming the water.

In an instant Tommy was crouching in the reeds, his hand feeling in his pocket, and his small body quivering.

The poet's mouth was open.

Followed a tw.a.n.g, and the whistle of a small projectile, and the rat disappeared. But the stone had not hit him.

"Tommy!" protested the poet.

But his appeal fell on deaf ears, for Tommy was watching the far side of the stream with an anxious gaze. Suddenly the brown nose reappeared.

He was a very ugly rat.

"Tommy!" said the poet again, weakly.