O, my poor father. Now, there's a sad thing, too. He is so ashamed Of his descendants. Why for some nine years He shut his eyes whenever he looked at me; And I have seen him on the village green Pretend to a stranger, once, who badgered him With curious questions, that I was the son Of poor old Gaffer Bramble, the lame sexton. That self-same afternoon, up comes old Bramble White hair a-blaze and big red waggling nose All shaking with the palsy; bangs our door Clean off its hinges with his crab-tree crutch, And stands there--framed--against the sunset sky! He stretches out one quivering fore-finger At father, like the great Destroying Angel In the stained window: straight, the milk boiled over, The cat ran, baby squalled and mother screeched. Old Bramble asks my father--what--what--what He meant--he meant--he meant! You should have seen My father's hopeless face! Lord, how he blushed, Red as a beet-root! Lord, Lord, how he blushed! 'Tis a hard business when a parent looks Askance upon his offspring.
Skip, you chatterer! Here comes our master.
Master, where hast thou been? I feared some harm had come to thee. What's this? This was a cloth-yard shaft that tore thy coat!
Oh, ay, they barked my shoulder, devil take them. I got it on the borders of the wood. St. Nicholas, my lad, they're on the watch.
What didst thou there? They're on the watch, i' faith! A squirrel could not pass them. Why, my namesake Prince John would sell his soul to get thy head, And both his ears for Lady Marian; And whether his ears or soul be worth the more, I know not. When the first lark flittered up To sing, at dawn, I woke; and thou wast gone. What didst thou there?
Well, first I went to swim In the deep pool below the mill.
I swam Enough last night to last me many a day. What then?
I could not wash away the thought Of all you told me. If Prince John should dare! That helpless girl! No, no, I will not think it. Why, Little John, I went and tried to shoot A grey goose wing thro' Lady Marian's casement.
Oh, ay, and a pink nosegay tied beneath it. Now, master, you'll forgive your Little John,-- But that's midsummer madness and the may Is only half in flower as yet. But why-- You are wounded--why are you so pale?