If the husband, of this gifted well, For he shall be master for life. "But if the wife should drink of it first God help the husband then!" The stranger stoop'd to the well of St. Keyne, "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes ?" He to the Cornishman said; But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church!" Westbury, 1798. ROBERT SOUTHEY LOSEL'S FARM. FROM THE SAD SHEPHERD." An hundred udders for the pail I have That give me milk and curds that make me cheese An aged oak, the king of all the field, With a broad beech, there grows before my door, Under whose shade I solace in the heat; Twa trilland brooks, each from his spring doth meet, And make a river to refresh my feet; In which each morning, ere the sun doth rise, I look myself, and clear my pleasant eyes, BEN JONSON, 1574-1637 GIPSIES. We have few gipsies in our neighborhood. In spite of our tempting green lanes, our woody dells, and heathy commons, the rogues don't take to us. I am afraid we are too civilized-too cautious; our sheepfolds are too closely watched; our barn-yards are too well guarded; our geese and ducks too fastly penned; our chickens too securely locked up; our little pigs too safe in their sty; our game too scarce; our laundresses too careful. In short, we are too little primitive; we have a snug brood of vagabonds and poachers of our own, to say nothing of their regular followers, constables and justices of the peace. We have stocks in the village, and a tread-mill in the next town, and therefore we go gipsy-less-a misfortune of which every landscape painter and every lover of that living landscape, the country, can appreciate the extent. There is nothing under the sun that harmonizes so well with nature, especially in her woodland recesses, as that picturesque people, who are, so to say, the wild genus-the pheasants and roebucks of the human race. * * * Sometimes, indeed, we used to see a gipsy procession passing along the common, like an Eastern caravan, men, women, children, donkeys, and dogs; and sometimes a patch of bare earth, strewed with ashes and surrounded by scathed turf, on the broad green margin of some cross-road, would give token of a gipsy hall; but a regular gipsy encampment has always been so rare an event, that I was equally surprised and delighted to meet with one in the course of my walks last autumn. They had pitched their little tent under one of the oak trees, perhaps from a certain dim sense of natural beauty, which those who live with nature in the fields are seldom totally without; perhaps because the neighborhood of the coppices and of the deserted hall was favorable to the acquisition of game, and of the little fuel which their hardy habits required. The party consisted only of four-an old crone in a tattered red cloak and black bonnet, who was stooping over a kettle, of which the contents were probably as savory as that of Meg Merrilies', renowned in story; a pretty black-eyed girl at work under the trees; a sun-burned urchin of eight or nine, collecting sticks and dead leaves to feed their out-of-door fire; and a slender lad, two or three years older, who lay basking in the sun, with a couple of shabby dogs of the sort called mongrel, in all the joy of idleness, while a grave, patient donkey stood grazing hard by. It was a pretty picture, with its soft autumnal sky, its rich woodiness, its verdure, the light smoke curling from the fire, and the group disposed around it so harmless, poor outcasts! and so happy-a beautiful picture! The old gipsy was a celebrated fortuneteller, and the post having been so long vacant, she could not have brought her talents to a better market. The whole village rang with the predictions of this modern Cassandra-unlike her Trojan predecessor, inasmuch as her prophecies were never of ill. I myself could not help admiring the real cleverness and genuine gipsy tact with which she adapted her foretellings to the age, the habits, and the known desires and circumstances of her clients. To our little pet Lizzy, for instance, a damsel of seven, she predicted a fairing; to Ben Kirby, a youth of thirteen, head batter of the boys, a new cricket-ball; to his sister Lucy, a girl some three years his senior, and just promoted to that ensign of womanhood—a cap-she promised a pink top-knot; while for Miss Sophia Matthews, our old-maidish schoolmistress, who would be heartily glad to be a girl again, she foresaw one handsome husband, and for the smart widow Simmons, two. These were the least of her triumphs. George Davis, the dashing young farmer of the Hill-house, a gay sportsman, who scoffed at fortune-tellers and matrimony, consulted her as to whose grayhound would win the courser's cup at the beacon meeting, to which she replied that she did not know to whom the dog would belong, but that the winner of the cup would be a white grayhound, with one blue ear and a spot on its side, being an exact description of Mr. George Davis' favorite Helen, who followed her master's step like his shadow, and was standing behind him at this very instant. This prediction gained our gipsy half-a-crown; and Master Welles, the thriving, thrifty yeoman of the lea, she managed to win sixpence from his hard, honest, frugal hand, by a prophecy that his old blood mare, called Blackfoot, should bring forth twins. And Ned, the blacksmith, who was known to court the tall nurse-maid at the millshe got a shilling from Ned, simply by assuring him that his wife should have the longest coffin that ever was made at our wheelwright's shop: a most tempting prediction! ingeniously combining the prospect of winning and of surviving the lady of his heart-a promise equally adapted to the hot and cold fits of that ague called love-lightening the fetters of wedlock-uniting in a breath the bridegroom and the widower. Ned was the best pleased of all her customers, and enforced his suit with such vigor, that he and the fair giantess were asked in church the next Sunday, and married at the fortnight's end. MARY R. MITFORD. A STERILE FIELD. Lo! where the heath, with withering brake grown o'er, Rank weeds, that every art and care defy, Reign o'er the land, and rob the blighted rye; There thistles stretch their prickly arms afar, O'er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade, GEORGE CRABBE, 1754-1882. THE ENGLISH COMMON. Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of English scenery, a green common, divided by the road; the right side fringed by hedge-rows and trees, with cottages and farm-houses irregularly placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks the left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands of cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down to corn-fields and meadɔws, and an old farm-house with pointed roofs and clustered chimneys looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed by woody hills. The common itself is the prettiest part of the prospect, half covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two sets of cricketers: one of young men, surrounded with spectators-some standing, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delightful interest in the game: the other a group of little boys at an humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough, shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. MARY R. MITFORD. LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. Once more, sweet stream! with slow foot wandering near, I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn), LINES FROM "INDEPENDENCE." Nature I'll court in her sequestered haunts, And Friendship pledge me with his fellow-swains; The slender cord that fluttering life sustains, And fearless Poverty shall guard the door; And Taste unspoil'd the frugal table spread, And Industry supply the humble store; |