Worth. That which I have here classified as prose, lacks none of the
essential elements of poetry, except a continuity of rhythm. The rhythm
is there, the iambic measure which she favors being fairly constant, but
it is broken by sentences and groups of sentences that are not metrical,
and while it would not be difficult to arrange most of this matter in
verse form, I am inclined to think that to the majority it will read
smoother and with greater ease as prose. Nevertheless, as will be seen,
it is poetry. The diction is wholly of that order, and it is filled with
strikingly vivid and agreeable imagery. There is, however, this
distinction: most of the matter here classed as prose is dramatic in
form and treatment, and each composition tells a story—a story with a
definite and well-constructed plot, dealing with real and strongly
individualized people, and mingling humor and pathos with much
effectiveness. They bring at once a smile to the face and a tear to the
eye. They differ, too, from the poetry, in that they have little or no
apparent spiritual significance. They are stories, beautiful stories,
unlike anything to be found in the literature of any country or any
time, but, except in the shadowy figure of “The Stranger,” they do not
rise above the things of earth. That is not to say, however, that they
are not spiritual in the intellectual or emotional sense of the word, as
distinguished from the soul relation.
At the end of an evening a year and a half after Patience began her
work, she said: “Thy hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its glow
and spinn a wordy tale betimes.”
At the next sitting she began the “wordy tale.” Up to that time she had
offered nothing in prose form but short didactic pieces, such as will
appear in subsequent chapters of this book, and the circle was lost in
astonishment at the unfolding of this story, so different in form and
spirit from anything she had previously given.
Her stories are, as already stated, dramatic in form. Indeed they are
condensed dramas. After a brief descriptive introduction or prologue,
all the rest is dialogue, and the scenes are shifted without explanatory
connection, as in a play. In the story of “The Fool and the Lady” which
follows, the fool bids adieu to the porter of the inn, and in the next
line begins a conversation with Lisa, whom he meets, as the context
shows, at some point on the road to the tourney. It is the change from
the first to the second act or scene, but no stage directions came from
the board, no marks of division or change of scene, nor names of persons
speaking, except as indicated in the context. In reproducing these
stories, no attempt has been made to put them completely in the dramatic
form for which they were evidently designed, the desire being to present
them as nearly as possible as they were received; but to make them
clearer to the reader the characters are identified, and shift of scene
or time has been indicated.
THE FOOL AND THE LADY
And there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as monk’s cloth, its covering.
Dim-glowing tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow winding streets.
The sounds of early morning creep through the thickened veil of heavy
mist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind is toying with the
threading smoke, and still it clingeth to the chimney pot.
There stands, beyond the darkest shadow, the Inn of Falcon Feather, her
sides becracked with sounding of the laughter of the king and
gentlefolk, who barter song and story for the price of ale. Her windows
sleep like heavy-lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek with wine, last
drunk by a merry party there.
The lamp, now blacked and dead, could boast to ye of part to many an
undoing of the unwary. The roof, o’er-hanging and bepeaked, doth ’mind
ye of a sleeper in his cap.
The mist now rises like a curtain, and over yonder steeple peeps the
sun, his face washed fresh in the basin of the night. His beams now
light the dark beneath the palsied stair, and rag and straw doth heave
to belch forth its baggage for the night.
* * * * *
(_Fool_) “Eh, gad! ’Tis morn, Beppo. Come, up, ye vermin; laugh and
prove thou art the fool’s. An ape and jackass are wearers of the cap and
bells. Thou wert fashioned with a tail to wear behind, and I to spin a
tale to leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the fool are purchased
by the wise. My crooked back and pegs are purses—the price to buy my
gown; but better far, Beppo, to hunch and yet to peer into the clouds,
than be as strong as knights are wont to be, and belly, like a snake,
amongst the day’s bright hours.
“Here, eat thy crust. ’Tis funny-bread, the earnings of a fool.
“I looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at yesternoon, and saw her skirt
the road with anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she sought, Beppo? Not
me, who, breathless, watched behind a flowering bush to hide my
ugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s!
“But ’neath these stripes of color I did feel new strength, and saw me
strided on a black beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou didst but
rattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrinking of my dream!
“But we do limp quite merrily, and could we sing our song in truer
measure—thou the mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more for me than
all the world, since hers do see me not.
“We two together shall flatten ’neath the tree in yonder field and ride
the clouds, Beppo, I promise ye, at after hour of noon.
“See! Tonio has slid the shutter’s bolt! I’ll spin a song and bart him
for a sup.”
* * * * *
(_Tonio_) “So, baggage, thou hast slept aneath the smell thou lovest
best!”
(_Fool_) “Oh, morrow, Tonio. The smell is weak as yester’s unsealed
wine. My tank doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet methinks thou
would’st see my slattern stays to rattle like dry bones, to please thee.
See, Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I may catch the drops—or,
here, I’ll milk the dragon o’er thy door!”
(_Tonio_) “Thou scrapple! Come within. ’Tis he who loveth not the fool
who doth hate his God.”
(_Fool_) “I’m loth to leave my chosen company. Come, Beppo, his words
are hard, but we do know his heart.
“A health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy wine one taste of thy heart’s
brew and I need not wish ye well.
“To her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick.
“Tonio, hast heard that at a time not set as yet the tournament will be?
Who think ye rides the King’s lance and weareth Lisa’s colors? Blue,
Tonio, and gold, the heavens’ garb—stop, Beppo, thou meddling pest!
Antonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but patches I have pilfered
from the ragheap adown the alleyway. I knew not they were blue. And this
is but a tassel dropt from off a lance at yester’s ride. I knew not of
its tinselled glint, I swear!
“So, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he laughs! And we too, eh? But do
we laugh the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my hump. Aday, Antonio!”
(_Antonio_) “Aday, thou fool, and would I had the wisdom of thy ape.”
* * * * *
(_On the Road to the Tournament._)
(_Lisa_) “Aday, fool!”
(_Fool_) “Ah, lady fair, hath lost the silver of thy laugh, and dost
thee wish me then to fetch it thee?”
(_Lisa_) “Yea, jester. Thou speaketh wisely; for may I ripple laughter
from a sorry heart? Now tease me, then.”
(_Fool_) “A crooked laugh would be thy gift should I tease it with a
crooked tale; and, lady, didst thee e’er behold a crooked laugh—one
which holds within its crook a tear?”
(_Lisa_) “Oh, thou art in truth a fool. I’d bend the crook and strike
the tear away.”
(_Fool_) “Aye, lady, so thou wouldst. But thou hast ne’er yet found thy
lot to bear a crook held staunch within His hand! Spring rain would be
thy tears—a balm to buy fresh beauties. And the fool? Ah, his do dry in
dust, e’en before they fall!”
(_Lisa_) “Pish, jester, thy tears would paint thy face to crooked lines,
and thee wouldst laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly sorry. Hast
heard the King hath promised me as wages for the joust? And thee dost
know who rideth ’gainst my chosen?”
(_Fool_) “Aye, lady, the crones do wag, and I do promise ye they wear
their necks becricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell me that his
sumpter-cloth doth trail like a ladies’ robe.”
(_Lisa_) “Yea, fool, and pledge me thy heart to tell it not, I did
broider at its hem a thrush with mine own tress—a song to cheer his way,
a wing to speed him on.”
(_Fool_) “Hear, Beppo, how she prates! Would I were a posey wreath and
Beppo here a fashioner of song. We then would lend us to thy hand to
offer as a token. But thou dost know a fool and ape are ever but a fool
and ape. I’m off to chase thy truant laugh. Who cometh there? The dust
doth rise like storm-cloud along the road ahead, and ’tis shot with
glinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of morning put to shame by the
flushing of thy cheek! See, he doth ride with helmet ope. Its golden
bars do clatter at the jolt, and—but stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We,
poor beggars, thee and me—an ape with a tail and a fool with a heart!
“See, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but to fling its petals ’neath
her feet. They tell me that his lance doth bear a ribband blue and a
curling lock of gold—and yet he treads the earth! Let’s then away!
The world may sorrow
But the fool must laugh.
’Tis blessed grain
That hath no chaff.
To love an ape
Is but to ape at love.
I sought a hand,
And found—a glove!
“Beppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool’s! I fain would feel the yoke,
lest I step too high.
“Come, we’ll seek the shelt’ring tree. I’ve in my kit a bit of curd. Thy
conscience need not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did see me
stow it there!
“Ah, me, ’tis such a home for fools, the earth. And they that are not
fools are apes.
“I see the crowd bestringing ’long the road, and yonder clarion doth bid
the riders come. Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we may tramp our
crooked path and ride astraddle of a cloud.
“She doth love him, then; and even now the horn doth sound anew—and she
the prize!
“I call the God above to see the joke that fate hath played; for I do
swear, Beppo, that when he rides he carries on his lance-point this
heart.
“I fret me here, but dare I see the play? Yea, ’tis a poor fool that
loveth not his jest.
“I go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do love her so.
“I’ll bear my hunch like a badge of His colors and I shall laugh, Beppo,
shall laugh at losing. He loves me well, else why didst send me thee?
“The way seems over long.
“They parry at the ring! I see her veil to float like cloud upon the
breeze.
“She sees me not. I wonder that she heareth not the thumping of my
heart. My eyes do mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see within her
eyes the look of thine!
“They rank! And hell would cool my brow, I swear. Beppo, as thou lovest
me, press sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it swayeth everywhere, as
a garden thick with bloom—a lily, white and glistening with a rain of
tears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I know.
“The red knight now doth cast! O Heaven turn his lance!
“’Tis put!
“And now the blue and gold! Wait, brother ape! Hold, in the name of God!
Straight! ’Tis tie! Can I but stand?
“I—ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I but steady thee? My legs are
wobbled but—my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink.
(”Beppo, ’tis true she seeth me!)
“Thy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. He puts a right too high. Thy
thrush is singing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flutter even now.
Ah, he is fitting thee——
“I do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feathering jest. An age before
he puts! A miss! A tie! Ah, lady, should’st thee win I’ll laugh anew and
even then will laugh at what thee knowest not.
“The red knight! God weight his charger’s hoof! (My God, Beppo, she did
kiss my hand!)
“He’s off! Beppo, cling!”
(_Lisa_) “The fool! Look ye, the fool and ape! Oh heaven stop their
flight! He’s well upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He’s charged anew,
but missed! What, did his mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come!”
(_Lisa, to her knight_) “So, thou, beloved, didst win me right! Where go
they with the litter?”
(_Knight_) “The fool, my lady, and a chattering ape, did tempt to jest a
charger in the field. We found them so. He lives but barely.”
(_Enter Fool upon litter._)
(_Fool_) “Aday, my lady fair! And hast thee lost the silver of thy laugh
and bid me fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools and lovers,
folly sick.”
(_Lisa_) “His eye grows misty. Fool, I know thee as a knave and love
thee as a man.”
(_Fool_) “’Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch and tassel from a lance ...
but we did ride, eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool’s! I
laugh anew, lest my friends should know me not. Beppo, I dream of new
roads, but thou art there! And I do faint, but she ... did kiss my
hand.... Aday ... L—a—d—y.”
* * * * *
Very soon after the completion of this story Patience began another one,
a Christmas story, a weird, mystical tale of medieval England, having
for its central theme a “Stranger” who is visible only to Lady Marye of
the Castle. The stranger is not described, nor does he speak a word, but
he is presumedly the Christ. There are descriptions of the preparations
for the Christmas feast at this lordly stronghold of baronial days, and
the coarse wit of the castle servants and the drunken profanity of their
master, “John the Peaceful,” form a vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady
Marye and the simple love of the herder’s family at the foot of the
hill. There are striking characters and many beautiful lines in this
story, but it is not as closely woven nor as coherent in plot as the
story of the fool and the lady.
THE STRANGER
’Twas at white season o’ the year, the shrouding o’ spring and
summerstide.
Steep, rugged, was the path, and running higher on ahead to
turret-topped and gated castle o’ the lordly state o’ John the Peaceful,
where Lady Marye whiled away the dragging day at fingering the regal.[2]
Footnote 2:
Regal. A small portable pipe organ used in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries. It was played with one hand while the bellows
was worked with the other.
From sheltered niche she looked adown the hillside stretching ’neath.
The valley was bestir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his flock, and
gentle folk did speak o’ coming Christ-time. Timon, the herder’s hut,
already hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir boughs set to spice
the air.
* * * * *
“Timon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, for winter promiseth a
searching night.”
Thus spake Leta, who stands, her babe astride her hip.
“And come ye then within. I have a brew that of a truth shall tickle at
thy funny bone. Bring then a bundle o’ brush weed that we may ply the
fire. I vow me thy boots are snow carts, verily!
“Hast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye them the kids? They breathe
it here that the boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of the
sparing hours today our Leta did sniff her up the hill; nay, since the
dawning she hath spread her smock and smirked.
“Leta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst wish the winter-painted bough to
bloom, and like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch thee a bowl and
put the bench to table-side. Thy sire wouldst sup. Go now and watch
aside the crib. Perchance thee’lt catch a glimpse o’ heaven spilled from
Tina’s dream.
“Timon, man, tell me now the doings o’ the day. I do ettle[3] for a
spicey tale.”
Footnote 3:
Ettle. In this case, to have a strong desire.
(_Timon_) “Well, be it so then, minx. I did fell the kids at sun-wake,
and thee’lt find the skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner
there. And I did catch a peep aslaunch[4] at mad Lady Marye, who did
play the pipes most mournfully. They tell me she doth look a straining
to this cot of ours. And what think ye, Leta? She doth only smile when
she doth see our wee one’s curls to glint. And ever she doth speak of
him who none hath seen. ’Tis strange, think ye not?”
Footnote 4:
Aslaunch. Aslant or obliquely. As we would now say, “Out of the corner
of the eye.”
(_Leta_) “Nay, Timon, I full oft do pause and peer on high to see her at
the summertide. Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her garden
’long the lake, and even ’tempts to come adown the path to us below. And
ever at her heels the pea-fowl struts.
“She ne’er doth see my beckoning, but do I come with Tina at my breast
she doth smile and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise.
“They tell, but breathlessly, that she doth sadly say the Stranger
bideth here.”
(_Timon_) “I’ll pit my patch ’gainst purse o’ gold, that ‘Mad Marye’
fitteth her as surely as ‘Peaceful John’ doth fit her sire. Thee knowest
’peace’ to him is of his cutting, and ’piece’ doth patch his ripping.
“They’ve bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye shouldst see the stir! I
fain would see Sir John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with boar
grease and soaked with ale, his mouth adrip with filth, and every
peasant there who serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye setteth
like a lily under frost!
“Leta, little one, thine eyes do blink like stars beshadowed in a cloudy
veil. Come, bend thy knee and slip away to dream!”
(_Little Leta prays_) “Vast blue above, wherein the angels hide; and
moon, his lamp o’ love; and cloud fleece white—art thou the wool to
swaddle Him? And doth His mother bide upon a star-beam that leadeth her
to thee? I bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire to watch full well
his flock. And put a song in every coming day; my Tina’s coo, and
mother’s song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night! I know He watcheth thee
and me.”
(_Timon_) “He heareth thee, my Leta. Watch ye the star on high. See ye,
it winketh knowingly. God rest ye, blest.”
(_At the Castle._)
(_Lady Marye_) “And I the Lady Marye, o’ the lord’s estate! Jana, fetch
me a goblet that I drink.”
(_Jana_) “Aye, lady. A wine, perchance?”
(_Lady Marye_) “Nay, for yester thou didst fetch me wine, and I did cast
it here upon the flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst thou
fetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal drops, and I should cast it
here, the greedy stone would sup it up, and where be then the stain?
Think ye the stone then the wiser o’ the two?
“I but loosed my fancy from its tether to gambol at its will, and they
do credit me amiss. I weave not with strand upon a wheel. ’Tis not my
station. Nay, I dally through the day with shuttle-cock and regal—a
fitting play for yonder babe.
“Jana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth see the Stranger? He knocketh
at the sill o’ yonder cot.
“I saw him when the cotter locked the sheep to tap a straying ewe who
lagged, and he did enter as the cotter stepped within—unbidden, Jana,
that I swear—and now he knocketh there!”
(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, ’tis but a barish limb that reacheth o’er the door.
The cotter heedeth not, ye see.”
(_Lady Marye_) “I do see him now to enter, and never did he turn! Jana,
look ye now! Doth still befriend a doubt?”
(_Jana_) “Come, lady, look! Sirrah John hath sent ye this, a posey,
wrought o’ gold and scented with sweet oils.”
(_Lady Marye_) “Ah, Jana, ’tis a hateful sight to me—a posey I may keep!
Why, the losing o’ the blossom doth but make it dear!
“Stay! I know thee’lt say ’twas proffered with his love. But, Jana, thou
hast much to learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort my tinder for
its building and ply the glass to start its flame? The day is o’er full
now of ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only when He toucheth thee
and bids thee come and putteth to thy hand His own doth love abide with
thee.
“Come to the turret, then. I do find me whetted for a look within.
“How cool the eve! ’Tis creepy to the marrow. Look ye down the hillside
there below. See ye the cotter’s taper burning there? How white the
night! ’Tis put upon the earth a mantling shroud, and sailing in the
silver sky a fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the Babe.
“Jana, see’st thou the Stranger? He now doth count the sheep. Dare I
trust him there? I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it close
unto his breast.”
(_Jana_) “Nay, lady, ’tis the shepherd’s dog who skulketh now ahind the
shelter wall.”
(_Lady Marye_) “Ah, give me, spite o’ this, the power to sing like Thine
own bird who swayeth happily upon the forest bough and pours abroad his
song where no man heareth him.
“Hear ye them below within the hall? They do lap at swine-broth. Their
cups do clank. At morrow’s eve they feast and now do need to stretch
their paunches. Full often have I seen my ladye mother’s white robe
stained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I been gagged to swallow
it. But, Jana, I do laugh, for the greatest jest is he who walloweth in
slime and thinketh him a fish.”
(_Jana_) “See, Lady Marye! This, thy mother’s oaken chest, it still doth
bear a scent o’ her. And this, thy gown o’ her own fashioning.”
(_Lady Marye_) “Yea, Jana, and this o’ her, a strand wound to a ball for
mine own casting. And this! I tell thee, ’tis oft and oft she did press
me to her own breast and chide me with her singing voice: ‘My Marye,
’tis a game o’ buff, this living o’ these days o’ ours o’ seeking
happiness. When ye would catch the rogue he flitteth on.’
“See, these spots o’ yellowed tears—the rusting of her heart away! Stay,
Jana, I’ll teach thee a trick o’ tripping, for she full oft did say a
heart could hide aneath a tripping.
“Thee shouldst curtsey so; and spread thy fan. ’Tis such a shield to
hide ahind. Then shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its measure,
so. See, I do laugh me now—nay, ’tis ne’er a tear, Jana, ’tis the mist
o’ loving! Doth see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I swooning?
’Tis fancy. See, the cotter’s taper still doth flicker from the shutter.
What’s then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He entereth the shelter
place! Come, I fear me lest I see too much? Lend me thy hand. I’ve
played the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem awry.
“Hear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, the feed-drunkened? My sire,
Jana, my sire! I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at the setting
o’ the feast I do wage him war at words! A porridge pot doth brew for
babes; I promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain now, I weary me
with reasoning.”
(_Morning at the Castle Gate._)
(_Tito_) “Aho, within! Thine eyes begummed and this the Christ-eve and
mornin’ come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do fetch ye sucklings
agagged with apples red. Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To whiff a
hungerfull would make the sages wag.”
(_Petro_) “Amorrow, Tito. Thee’lt wear thee white as our own Lady long
afore ye e’en canst dip thy finger in the drip.”
(_Tito_) “Pst! Petro, I did steal the brain and tung. Canst leave me
have a peep now to the hall? Jesu! What a breeder o’ sore bellies. I’d
pay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a briskish rub with mullien o’er
the back.
“They do tell me down below that trouble bideth Timon. His Tina layeth
dull and Leta doth little but mumble prayer.”
(_Petro_) “Tito, thee art a chanter of sad lays at this Christ-time. Go
thou to the turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the sucklings to
the kitchen, aside the fire dogs there. And Tito, thee’lt find a pudding
pan ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it there!”
(_To Sir John_) “Aye, I do come, my lord. ’Tis but the sucklers come. I
know not where in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and ye’ll surely
hear the pipes.”
(_Sir John_) “Bah! Damn the drivelling pipes! I do hear them late and
early. ’Tis a fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! But no,
I’d tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get thee, thou grunting swine! And
take this as thy Christ-gift. I’d deal thee thrice the measure wert not
to save these lordly legs. Here, fetch me a courser. I’d ride me to the
hounds. And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste me not a blow.
Dost like the smart? Or shall I ply it more? Thee’lt dance to tune, or
damn ye, run from cuts!
“Ho, Timon, how goes it with the brat? The world’s o’erfull o’ cattle
now!”
(_Timon_) “Yea, sire, so did my Leta say when she did see thee come.
’Tis with our Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, and God forgive
thee.”
(_In Lady Marye’s Chamber._)
(_Lady Marye_) “Jana, morn hath come. ’Tis Christ-tide and He not here!
My limbs do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro’ the day? The
feast, the feast, yea, the feast! The day doth break thro’ fog in truth!
“My mother’s bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch it me, and one small holly
bough. Lend me a hand. I fain would see the cot.
“See thou! The sun doth love it, too, and chooseth him to rise him o’er
its roof! Hath thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the shelter
place? And, Jana, did all seem well to thee? Nay, the Stranger, Jana!
See, he still doth hold the lamb! ‘My Marye, ’tis a game o’ buff, this
living o’ these days o’ ours.’ In truth, ’tis put.
“Jana, I did dream me like a babe the night hours through; a dream so
sweet, o’ vast blue above wherein the angels hid, and I did see the
Christ-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, maid of sorrows, led to him
adown a silver beam.
“Then thee dost deem my fitful fancy did but play me false? Stay thou,
my tears, and, heart o’ me, who knoweth He doth watch o’er thee and me?
“Her robe! Ah, Fancy, ’tis thy right that thou art ever doubted. For
thou art a conjurer, a trickster, verily. What chamming[5] joy didst
thee then offer her?
Footnote 5:
Obsolete form of “champing.” Used here figuratively.
“Thou cloud of billowed lace, a shield befitting her pure heart! And I
the flowering of the bud! Hear me, all this o’ her! I love thee well,
and should the day but offer a bitter draft to quaff, ’tis but to whet
me for a sweeter drink. And mother, heart o’ me, hearken and do believe.
I love my sire, Sir John.
“Come, Jana. Hear ye the carolers? Their song doth filter thro’ my heart
and lighten it. The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like pipes to
’company them. Cast ye a bit o’ holly and a mistletoe.
“The feasters come to whet them with a pudding whiff. See, my sire doth
ride him up the hill and o’er his saddle front a fallow deer. Hear thee
the cheering that he comes! Her loved, my Jana, and her heart doth beat
through me!