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"Shall the blood of my brother," he cried "stain the floor of his father? They also worshipped the sun and moon. Woden was their god of war; and from him Ida and his descendants professed to spring. Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw from before the anger of the great king, in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the life even of his kindred was as a spider's thread.
The creature grinned. "I shall pay your mother's income quarterly, and do the best I can by her," he continued; "and if you want to make a man of yourself, I'll give you a chance in the bakery with me; or Sam Bratley will take you into his brewery; or Bob into his pork-packery." I checked my indignation. The vulgarian wished to drag me, a Chylde, down to the Bratley level.
I cannot draw the line between the baker of hard tack such is the familiar term we employ and the seller of the material for our product, by the barrel or the cargo. From the point of view of a Chylde, all avocations for the making of money seem degrading, and only the spending is dignified.
Then thus replied the warrior Chylde: "Agitha thou that art fairer, milder than the light that plays around the brows of the summer moon, and dearer to me than a mother's milk to the lips of her babe it is for thee that my countenance is sad, and my soul troubled. For thy father has pierced my spirit with many arrows; yea, even with the poisoned arrows of a deadly foe.
The Wonderfull Worke of God shewed upon a Chylde, whose name is William Withers, being in the Towne of Walsam ... Suffolk, who, being Eleven Yeeres of age, laye in a Traunce the Space of Tenne Days ... and hath continued the Space of Three Weeks, London, 1581. Written by John Phillips. This pamphlet is mentioned by Sidney Lee in his article on John Phillips in the Dict. Nat. Biog.
A hundred princes sighed for the hand of the bright-haired Agitha; but their tales of love had no music for her ear, and they jarred upon her soul as the sounds of a broken instrument. She bent her ear only to listen to the song of affection from the lips of the Chylde Wynde even to Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and the unerring bow, who was her own kinsman, the son of her father's brother.
But here I stood above a sleeping city of men, and far above me, so far that I could only hear them, holding their northward way through the starlit sky, they passed whither? and how guided? Was the shining dome of the State House a beacon? Did they mark the light at Marblehead? ... the chylde may Rue that ys vn-born, it wos the mor pitte. There was murder in my heart. The woodchuck knew it.
A. Bratley, my grandfather, was indeed one of those rude, laborious, and serviceable persons whose office is to make money or perhaps I should say to accumulate the means of enjoyment for the upper classes of society. But my father, the late Mr. Harold Chylde, had gentlemanly tastes. How can I blame him? I have the same. He loved to guide the rapid steed along the avenue.
When I state that my name is A. Bratley Chylde, I presume that I am already sufficiently introduced. My patronymic establishes my fashionable position. Chylde, the distinguished monosyllable, is a card of admission everywhere, everywhere that is anywhere. And my matronymic, Bratley, should have established my financial position for life.
And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders, was hailed as Rowena, the mother of Wynde, the subduer of princes; yea, even of Chylde Wynde, the beloved, and the lord of Agitha the Beautiful. Such was the tale of the Saxon bard.
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