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Updated: May 14, 2025
"I think that sounds just the sort of place he would feel at home in," said their father; "and now, would you like me to tell you where I got him?" "Oh, yes, please, father," said Ambrose, letting his head drop on Mr Hawthorn's shoulder with a deep sigh of contentment. "Tell us every little scrap about it, and don't miss any."
He kept the song in his heart for a year and a day, and then, because nothing had gone amiss and he was homeward bound, he sang it, too: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I."
Little sister, I'll rock you to rest! The flood on the river beats The swan from its nest! You would not slumber If laid at my breast! The rain-drops encumber The hawthorn's crest: My thoughts have no number: You would not slumber If laid at my breast, Little sister, I'll rock you to rest.
It is divided into boxes, for the solitary confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a live waiter: which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner of the apartment." Pierce Egan, in the closing pages of his lively account of Jerry Hawthorn's visit to London, gives an outside view of the tavern only.
The day after the brig was floated her engine was sent from Hawthorn's foundry at Newcastle. It was of a hundred and twenty horse-power, with oscillating cylinders, taking up little room; its power was considerable for a hundred-and-seventy-ton brig, with so much sail, too, and of such fleetness.
Dudley came up excitedly to Roy, directly after dinner was over one Saturday afternoon. "And I say," he continued; "bring them out and let us go down to the beach to read them together. The tide will be out till the evening." Roy hastened off, and wondered at Mrs. Hawthorn's grave look. "Your aunt has sent me some letters to give you, Roy. She has only just received them herself.
There was already one egg in it and soon there would be more. Then she would send them to market; and when they were sold she would buy a ribbon for her hair. It was no wonder that she felt like singing: "The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloudless sky; And not a bird that sings in spring Is happier than I, than I, Is happier than I."
The hawthorn's white, the sun is bright, And blue the cloud-less sky; . And not a bird that sings in spring Is hap-pi-er than I, than I, Is hap-pi-er than I. . . Oh, who would go to fairyland? The moon is shining bright, oh, And who would go to fairyland Upon a summer's night, oh! Across a field of fragrant fern All sparkling with the dew, oh!
The even course of these days was only disturbed twice in the year once by Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's visit to Nearminster, and once by Miss Unity's visit to Easney. These were important events to her, anticipated for months, not exactly with pleasure; for, though she was really fond of her friends, she was shy, and to be put out of her usual habits was, besides, a positive torture to her.
In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived Pennie's godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs Hawthorn's custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn.
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