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Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call, With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour, Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball, Or press her wanton in love's roseate bower: For me, no more I'll range the empurpled mead, Where shepherd's pipe and virgins dance around, Nor wander through the woodbine's fragrant shade, To hear the music of the grove resound.
There's the old bridge over the brook, just the same, only the woodbine's red.... There's... There's... Oh, Mardie, look, look!... I do b'lieve it's our Jacky!" Sue flew over the ground like a swallow, calling "Jack-y! Jack-y! It's me and Mardie come home!" Jack extricated himself from his sister's strangling hug and settled his collar.
Thus Woodbine's young shoots were left without a trainer, to the dismay of its older members and distress of its younger ones, for both Beverly and Athol had grown very fond of Norman Lee, who seemed but little older than themselves, though in reality quite ten years their senior.
At the north and south ends of the house were the real entrances from the carefully raked, wide driveway which described almost a complete circle from the great stone gateway half a mile across Woodbine's lawn.
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