Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal

Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)

And his old Father both betook themselves

To such convenient work as might employ

Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,

Or other implement of house or field. Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,

That in our ancient uncouth country style

With huge and black projection overbrowed

Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;

An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn-and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which, going by from year to year, had found,

And left, the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with

hopes,

Living a life of eager industry. And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,

There by the light of this old lamp they sate,

Father and Son, while far into the night The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,

Making the cottage through the silent

hours

And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the House itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named THE EVENING STAR.

Thus living on through such a length

of years,

The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs

Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart

This son of his old age was yet more dear--

Less from instinctive tenderness, the

same

Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—

Than that a child, more than all other gifts

That earth can offer to declining man, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,

And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. Exceeding was the love he bare to him, His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes

Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Had done him female service, not alone For pastime and delight, as is the use Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced

To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked

His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,

Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the Young-one in his sight, when he

Wrought in the field, or on his shep herd's stool

Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched

Under the large old oak, that near his door

Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,

Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the

sun,

Thence in our rustic dialect was called The CLIPPING TREE,1 a name which yet it bears.

Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing. (Wordsworth.)

Не

as a watchman oftentimes was placed

At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;

And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

Something between a hindrance and a help;

And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,

Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand

Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,

Not fearing toil, nor length of weary

A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,

Two evenings after he had heard the

news.

"I have been toiling more than seventy years,

And in the open sunshine of God's love Have we all lived; yet if these fields of

ours

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think

That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not

false,

There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ;but

"Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

He quickly will repair this loss, and then He may return to us. If here he stay, What can be done? Where every one is poor,

What can be gained?"

At this the old Man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind Was busy, looking back into past times. There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,

He was a parish-boy-at the church-door They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors bought

A basket, which they filled with pedlar's

And left estates and monies to the poor And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, floored

With marble which he sent from foreign lands.

These thoughts, and many others of like sort.

Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,

And her face brightened. The old Man was glad.

And thus resumed:-"Well, Isabel! this scheme

These two days, has been meat and drink to me.

Far more than we have lost is left us yet. -We have enough-I wish indeed that I Were younger;-but this hope is a good hope.

-Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best

Buy for him more, and let us send him forth

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: -If he could go, the boy should go tonight."

Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth

With a light heart. The Housewife for five days

Was restless morn and night, and all day long

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare

Things needful for the journey of her

son.

Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,

In that deep valley, Michael had designed

To build a Sheepfold; and, before he heard

The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up

A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge

Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked :

And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,

And thus the old Man spake to him:"My Son,

To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with

And said, "Nay, do not take it so I see That these are things of which I need not speak.

-Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others' hands; for, though
now old

Beyond the common life of man, I still Remember them who loved me in my youth.

Both of them sleep together: here they lived,

As all their Forefathers had done; and when

At length their time was come, they were not loth

To give their bodies to the family mould. I wished that thou should'st live the life

Thus, after a short silence, he resumed: "This was a work for us; and now, my Son,

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone-Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands.

Nay, Boy, be of good hope;-we both may live

To see a better day. At eighty-four I still am strong and hale ;-do thou thy part;

I will do mine.--I will begin again With many tasks that were resigned to thee:

Up to the heights, and in among the storms,

Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone," Before I knew thy face.-Heaven bless thee, Boy!

Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast

With many hopes; it should be so-yes

The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart

He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ;

And to the house together they returned. -Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace,

Ere the night fell :-with morrow's dawn the Boy

Began his journey, and when he had reached

The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,

Came forth with wishes and with fare well prayers,

That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman