CHAPTER XXVII

_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.”

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”.