Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/83

 An’ sometimes, Oh! a letter.—Then, ’twas “Get the slush-lamp, quick!” (’Twas a hollow’d raw potato, stuff’d with stocking round a stick, An’ stuck, swamp’d with porpoise-oil, in a pannikin— Smelt, Uncle used to say, worse than home-made sin);

An’ then we’d hush an’ settle down quiet round the hearth, For to hear o’ green Kent country, an’ the old side of the Earth. Uncle listen’d interested, Father with a frown; Mother used to listen with her head bow’d down.

It was always full o’ stories; folks were wedded, buried, born; There were animals, an’ railways, an’ “the cherries,” or “the corn.” All our plays ’ud be for days what the news had been;— An’ ’twas nice that people loved you that you hadn’t ever seen.

Well, an’ after that, came Supper—for us young ones, too; at least, Mother’d let us have a taste, just to feel the feast. An’ wasn’t she a picture! pouring, good an’ hot, Tea (not manuka-brew, but Tea!) from the pot.