Give me this: a stream that wendeth,
Where the sighing willow bendeth,
Singing through the woodland ways
Never-ending songs of praise.
Give me these, with eyes to see
And richer than a king I'll be.'"
"D'ye like it, Peregrine?" he enquired, anxious and diffident.
"So much that I wish I had written it."
"Jerry writes verses like birds sing and the wind blows, just because
he must," said Diana gravely. "All that is best happens so, I think.
Are you for Tonbridge tomorrow, Jerry?"
"Aye, I am, lass, 'cording to custom. Maybe I'll pick up plenty to do
at the fair."
"And maybe you'll find your friend, Peregrine," said she, rising.
"What friend?"
"Him you was to meet, of course."
"Why, to be sure--Anthony! I'd clean forgotten him."
"That's strange," said she, "seeing you were so anxious to find him."
"It is," said I, "I wonder what should have put it out of my head?"
"Ah--I wonder!" said the Tinker. "What, goin' to bed, lass? Tent soot
ye?"
"Yes--I laid your blankets under the tree yonder--Good night!" And
with a wave of the hand she was gone.
Then, having made up the fire, we presently rolled ourselves in our
blankets and lay down where we might behold the stars. And after some
while the Tinker spoke drowsily:
"I'm glad--very glad, friend Peregrine, as I've met you again, not
only because you like my verses but because I like your ways. But I'm
sorry--aye, very sorry, as you should ha' fallen in wi' Diana--"
"And why, pray?" I demanded, a little sharply.
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