"THY husband -- poor, poor Heart! -- is dead -- Dead, out by Moreford Rise; A bull escaped the barton-shed, Gored him, and there he lies!" -- "Ha, ha -- go away! 'Tis a tale, methink, Thou joker Kit!" laughed she. "I've known thee many a year, Kit Twink, And ever hast thou fooled me!" -- "But, Mistress Damon -- I can swear Thy goodman John is dead! And soon th'lt hear their feet who bear His body to his bed." So unwontedly sad was the merry man's face -- That face which had long deceived -- That she gazed and gazed; and then could trace The truth there; and she believed. She laid a hand on the dresser-ledge, And scanned far Egdon-side; And stood; and you heard the wind-swept sedge And the rippling Froom; till she cried: "O my chamber's untidied, unmade my bed, Though the day has begun to wear! 'What a slovenly hussif!' it will be said, When they all go up my stair!" She disappeared; and the joker stood Depressed by his neighbor's doom, And amazed that a wife struck to widowhood Thought first of her unkempt room. But a fortnight thence she could take no food, And she pined in a slow decay; While Kit soon lost his mournful mood And laughed in his ancient way. |