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Updated: May 16, 2025
So thought each laughing maiden gay, Whose head-gear bore the oaken spray; So thought that hand of shouting boys, Unchecked in their best joy in noise; But gray-haired men, whose deep-marked scars Bore token of the civil wars, And hooded dames in cloaks of red, At the blithe youngsters shook the head, Gathering in eager clusters told How joyous were the days of old, When Beechcroft's lords, those Barons bold, Came forth to join their vassals' sport, And here to hold their rustic court, Throned in the ancient chair you see Beneath our noble old yew tree.
Many a glance Ellen gave her as she sat talking with Alice; and with every one she felt more and more drawn towards her. She was somewhat under the common size, and rather stout; her countenance most agreeable; there was sense, character, sweetness in it. Some wrinkles, no doubt, were there, too; lines deep-marked, that spoke of sorrows once known.
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