LITMIR.BIZ

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When Beechcroft’s lords, those Barons bold,

         Came forth to join their vassals’ sport,

         And here to hold their rustic court,

         Throned in the ancient chair you see

         Beneath our noble old yew tree.

         Alas! all empty stands the throne,

         Reserved for Mohun’s race alone,

         And the old folks can only tell

         Of the good lords who ruled so well.

         “Ah!  I bethink me of the time,

         The last before those years of crime,

         When with his open hearty cheer,

         The good old squire was sitting here.”

         “’Twas then,” another voice replied,

         “That brave young Master Maurice tried

         To pitch the ball with Andrew Grey—

         We ne’er shall see so blithe a day—

            All the young squires have long been dead.”

         “No, Master Webb,” quoth Andrew Grey,

            “Young Master Maurice safely fled,

         At least so all the Greenwoods say,

         And Walter Greenwood with him went

         To share his master’s banishment;

         And now King Charles is ruling here,

         Our own good landlord may be near.”

         “Small hope of that,” the old man said,

         And sadly shook his hoary head,

         “Sir Maurice died beyond the sea,

         Last of his noble line was he.”

         “Look, Master Webb!” he turned, and there

         The stranger sat in Mohun’s chair;

         At ease he sat, and smiled to scan

         The face of each astonished man;

         Then on the ground he laid aside

         His plumed hat and mantle wide.

         One moment, Andrew deemed he knew

         Those glancing eyes of hazel hue,

         But the sunk cheek, the figure spare,

         The lines of white that streak the hair—

         How can this he the stripling gay,

         Erst, victor in the sports of May?

         Full twenty years of cheerful toil,

         And labour on his native soil,

         On Andrew’s head had left no trace—

            The summer’s sun, the winter’s storm,

         They had but ruddier made his face,

            More hard his hand, more strong his form.

         Forth from the wandering, whispering crowd,

         A farmer came, and spoke aloud,

         With rustic bow and welcome fair,

         But with a hesitating air—

         He told how custom well preserved

         The throne for Mohun’s race reserved;

         The stranger laughed, “What, Harrington,

         Hast thou forgot thy landlord’s son?”

         Loud was the cry, and blithe the shout,

         On Beechcroft hill that now rang out,

         And still remembered is the day,

         That merry twenty-ninth of May,

         When to his father’s home returned

         That knight, whose glory well was earned.

         In poverty and banishment,

         His prime of manhood had been spent,

         A wanderer, scorned by Charles’s court,

         One faithful servant his support.

         And now, he seeks his home forlorn,

         Broken in health, with sorrow worn.

         And two short years just passed away,

         Between that joyous meeting-day,

         And the sad eve when Beechcroft’s bell

         Tolled forth Sir Maurice’s funeral knell;

      And Phyllis, whose love was so constant and tried,

      Was a widow the year she was Maurice’s bride;

      Yet the path of the noble and true-hearted knight,

      Was brilliant with honour, and glory, and light,

      And still his descendants shall sing of the fame

      Of Sir Maurice de Mohun, the pride of his name.’

      ‘It is a pity they should sing of it in such lines as those last four,’ said Claude.  ‘Let me see, I like your bringing in the real names, though I doubt whether any but Greenwood could have been found here.’

      ‘Oh! here come Emily and Jane,’ said Lily, ‘let me put it away.’

      ‘You are very much afraid of Jane,’ said Claude.

      ‘Yes, Jane has no feeling for poetry,’ said Lily, with simplicity, which made her brother smile.

      Jane and Emily now came up, the former with her work, the latter with a camp-stool and a book.  ‘I wonder,’ said she, ‘where those boys are!  By the bye, what character did they bring home from school?’

      ‘The same as usual,’ said Claude.  ‘Maurice’s mind only half given to his work, and Redgie’s whole mind to his play.’

      ‘Maurice’s talent does not lie in the direction of Latin and Greek,’ said Emily.

      ‘No,’ said Jane, ‘it is nonsense to make him learn it, and so he says.’

      ‘Perhaps he would say the same of mathematics and mechanics, if as great a point were made of them,’ said Lily.

      ‘I think not,’ said Claude; ‘he has more notion of them than of Latin verses.’

      ‘Then you are on my side,’ said Jane, triumphantly.

      ‘Did I say so?’ said Claude.

      ‘Why not?’ said Jane.  ‘What is the use of his knowing those stupid languages?  I am sure it is wasting time not to improve such a genius as he has for mechanics and natural history.  Now, Claude, I wish you would answer.’

      ‘I was waiting till you had done,’ said Claude.

      ‘Why do you not think it nonsense?’ persisted Jane.

      ‘Because I respect my father’s opinion,’ said Claude, letting himself fall on the grass, as if he had done with the subject.

      ‘Pooh!’ said Jane, ‘that sounds like a good little boy of five years old!’

      ‘Very likely,’ said Claude.

      ‘But you have some opinion of your own,’ said Lily.

      ‘Certainly.’

      ‘Then I wish you would give it,’ said Jane.

      ‘Come, Emily,’ said Claude, ‘have you brought anything to read?’

      ‘But your opinion, Claude,’

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