_One I have marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the best:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May,
And this is thy dominion._
W. WORDSWORTH.
“Dolorès had a tame bird called ‘Piripe,’ you know,” said Clare one
day to the children.
“She brought him up by hand, and when he died she was miserable.
She’s got a long poem that a man called Skelton wrote long ago when
English was spelt strangely. It is full of pretty phrases, and it has
got a long list of birds’ names; if you’ll listen, she’ll read it to
you, she says.”
[Illustration: _Reynolds._ DOLORÈS.]
Clare spoke eagerly. But she had no need to call the children
twice. They gather round any one willingly enough who will read to
them.
Dolorès looked very small and sad as she sat on a low stool, about to
commence reading. There is something you will see, in the manner her
little bodice is crossed, that is curiously at one with that lift in
her eyebrow.
“My bird was a green finch,” she said, “and he had the crossest
little eye I’ve ever seen; it was like a sour bead, full of
greediness. But all the same I loved him, and I shall never have
such another. I shall never, never, have such a dear again. This man
Skelton who wrote this poem must have known some little girl who lost
a bird she loved, for listen to what he writes about it. It is called
_The Boke of Phyllyp Sparowe_,
and these are only some of the lines:--
“‘When I remember again
How my Phylyp was slain
Never half the payne
Was between you twain,
Pyramus and Thisbe,
As then befell to me.
I wept and I wayled,
The tears down hayled,
But nothing it availed
To call Philyp again,
Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.
Gib, I say, our cat
Worried her on that
Which I loved best.
It cannot be expressed
By sorrowful heaviness.
It was so prety a fool
It wold sit on a stool;
It had a velvet cap,
And would sit upon my lap,
And seek after small wormes
And sometymes white bread crommes.
Sometimes he wold gasp
When he saw a wasp,
A fly, or a gnat,
He would fly at that;
And pretily he wold pant
When he saw an ant;
Lord, how he wold pry
After the butterfly!
Lord, how he wold hop
After the gressop!
And when I sayd, Phyp, Phyp!
Then he wold leap and skyp
And take me by the lyp.
Alas! it will me slo
That Phyllyp is gone me fro!
For it wold come and go
And fly so to and fro,
And on me it wold leap
When I was asleep,
And his fethers shake,
Wherewith he wold make
Me often for to wake.
He did nothing perdie
But sit upon my knee.
Phyllyp had leave to go
To pike my lytell toe;
Phyllip might be bold
And do what he wold.
Phyllyp wold seek and take
All the fleas blake
That he could there espy
With his wanton eye.
* * * * *
That vengeance I aske and cry
By way of exclamation
On the whole nation
Of cattes, wyld and tame.
God send them sorrowe and shame!
That cat specially
That slew so cruelly
My lytell prety sparowe
That I brought up at Carowe.
* * * * *
When I remember it,
How pretily it wold sit
Many times and oft
On my finger aloft!
His bill between my lippes--
It was my prety Phyppes!
He was wont to repayre
And go in at my spayre,
And creep in at my gore
Of my gown before,
Flyckering with his wings.
Alas! my heart it stings
Remembrynge prety things!
Of fortune this the chance
Standeth on variance
Oft time after pleasaunce,
Trouble and grievaunce
No man can be sure
All way to have pleasure.
As well perceive ye may
How my desport and play
From me was taken away
By Gyb, our cat, savage,
That in a furious rage
Caught Phyllyp by the head
And slew him there, starke dead.
_Kyrie eleison,
Christe, eleison,
Kyrie eleison_,
For Phyllyp Sparowe’s soule
Set in our bead roll
Let us now whisper
A Pater noster.
All manner of birdes in your kind
So none be left behind,
Some to sing and some to say,
Some to weep and some to pray
Every birde in his laye.
The goldfink, the wagtayle,
The jangling pie to chatter
Of this dolorous matter;
And robyn redbreast
He shall be the priest
The requiem mass to sing
Softly warbelynge.
With help of the red sparrow
And the chattringe swallow
This hearse for to hallow.
The larke, with his long toe,
The spynk and martinet, also
The shoveler with his brode bek;
The dotterell, that folyshe pek
The partryche, the quayle,
The plover, with us to wayle,
The lusty chaunting nightingale;
The popinjay to tell her tale
That looketh oft in the glasse,
Shall read the gospel at Masse.
The mavis with her whystle
Shall read the epistle,
But with a large and a longe
To keep just playne songe
Our chanters shall be the cuckoo,
The culver, the stockdoo,
With puwyt, the lapwyng,
The versicles shall syng.
The bittern with his bumpe,
The crane with his trumpe,
The swan of Menander,
The gose and the gander,
The duck and the drake,
Shall watch at this wake.
The owle, that is so fowle,
Must help us to howle;
The barnacle, the bussarde,
With the wild mallarde;
The puffin and teal
Money they shall dele;
The seamewe, the tytmose,
The wodcocke, with the longe nose;
The throstyll, with her warblyng,
The starling, with her brablyng;
The roke and the osprey
That putteth fysshe to the fraye;
And the dainty curlew,
With the turtyll most trew.
And it were a Jewe
It wold make one rewe
To see my sorrow newe!
These villainous false cattes
Were made for myse and rattes,
And not for birdes smale.
Alas! my face waxeth pale
Telling this piteous tale.
Alas! I say agayne,
Deth hath departed us twayne;
The false cat hath thee slayne.
Farewell, Phyllyp, adieu,
Our Lord thy soule reskew;
Farewell, without restore,
Farewell for evermore.’”
JOHN SKELTON, born 1460.
CONCLUSION
The day came when the children were to leave London. The demon of
packing was abroad. Open trunks in the passage, frothing over with
paper, busy people, excited children, and bustle everywhere. This
is the spirit of packing, much beloved of children, but only to be
endured in varying degrees of patience by those more nearly concerned.
The children must see after their own toys, however. So Huckaback
and Bombasine, the cloth monkeys, are placed with other things on
the nursery table, where they lie grinning, with bead teeth. Here
also is Natalie, who we read of in the first chapter, and Mrs. Apollo
Johnson, a white material bear. Here are Molly Easter, the horse
Anthony, and Ben and Greet.
Clare, having put these toys aside, left the nursery, where the sense
of dislocation was almost too acute. Going to her own room, she stood
looking out of the window. The scene before her brought to her mind
the view she was so soon to see. She thought of the green paddock to
be full of daffodils in March, where the ashes stand with their grey
stems, and the great yew tree. She saw the curve in the oak paling
as it skirts the withebed, and the winding path that leads to Minnow
Corner. She caught the scent of the old stone granary, that has just
sufficient dash of mouse in it to make the hay and grain smell doubly
sweet, and she remembered the thick yew hedges where linnets build,
and the leaning boughs of the mulberry tree.
“And all this,” thought she, “I shall soon see once more.” And with
this thought there flooded into her heart a wave of love for the
country, bringing with it the remembrance of some lines.
“‘’Tis she that to these gardens gave
The wondrous beauty that they have.
She straightness on the wood bestows,
To her the meadow sweetness owes.
Nothing could make the river be
So crystal pure but only she.
She, yet more pure, sweet, straight and fair
Than gardens, woods, meads, rivers are.’”
And as Clare said these lines, with her mind dwelling on the country,
suddenly it took a swallow’s angle, and she thought of London again
and the life of the pictures that she had come to know. Swiftly she
ran downstairs and stood in turn before each one of them. The morning
light touched them unsympathetically. They seemed strangely aloof.
Was it because her thoughts had been among the green living things of
the country, her memory out in the fresh, sweet air of Nature, that
these pictures seemed so dead?
She stood before Lewis the actor. He gripped his sword and looked
away. Before Mrs. Inchbald. She leaned from her chair, gazing
intently, but not at Clare. Miss Ridge smiled, but the smile was not
for her. Clare knew if she turned away, Miss Ridge would still be
smiling. She stood before Kitty Fischer; but nothing that Clare could
do or say would make her look up.
“Miss Ross will say something,” thought Clare. But no spoken word
came from Miss Ross. Yet as Clare stood looking, she remembered two
lines, she knew not whence they came--
Endurance is the noblest quality,
And Patience all the passion of great hearts.
Clare went out upon the landing. Here again there was no recognition.
The Spencer children were painted children, and Lady Crosbie, though
she tripped forward with smiles for every one, was but a bright form
on canvas.
The life of the pictures had been withdrawn.
Only Robert Mayne, Clare thought, looked back at her with any
friendship.
Then she looked steadfastly at the wide country round Dedham Lock.
And as she looked, she saw the wind was in the sedges, bowing the
great dock leaves as it passed.
THE END
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO., LTD.
At the Ballantyne Press
Tavistock Street
LONDON
Transcriber’s Notes
The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
the transcriber.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “Gather-Stick”/“Gatherstick”
have been maintained.
Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
have been retained.
Page 47: “The gang consisted of seven gipses” changed to “The gang
consisted of seven gipsies”.