Page:Dickens - A Child s History of England, 1900.djvu/506

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She was a pretty, gentle girl—a farmer's orphan daughter, and the landlord's niece—whom I strongly suspected of being engaged to be married very shortly, to the writer of the letter that I saw her reading at least twenty times, when I passed the bar, and which I more than believe I saw her kiss one night. She told me a tale of that country which went so pleasantly to the music of her voice, that I ought rather to say it turned itself into verse, than was turned into verse by me.

A little past the village

The inn stood, low and white,

Green shady trees behind it, And an orchard on the right,

Where, over the green paling The red-cheeked apples hung,

As if to watch how wearily The sign-board creaked and swung.

The heavy-laden branches

Over the road hung low,

Reflecting fruit or blossom

In the wayside well below;

Where children, drawing water,

Looked up and paused to see,

Amid the apple branches

A purple Judas Tree.

The road stretch' d winding onward

For many a weary mile—

So dusty footsore wanderers

Would pause and rest awhile;

And panting horses halted,

And travellers loved to tell

The quiet of the wayside inn.

The orchard, and the well.

Here Maurice dwelt; and often

The sunburned boy would stand

Gazing upon the distance.

And shading with his hand

His eyes, while watching vainly

For travellers, who might need

His aid to loose the bridle,

And tend the weary steed. }}