Said Lily to Roger (guests were they),
"Tis an odd and wildering game we play,
For eight were we, and now we are nine;"
Said he, "'Tis a trick of the white moonshine."
Then Dorothy too her thoughts must say,
But Launcelot laughed her fears away,
And Geoffrey vowed that the sport and race
Were wilder far for a phantom face.
To Alice, who towered right over his head,
"I too have seen," Sir Christopher said;
"Yes, though we were eight and now we are nine, Take courage and lay your hand in mine."
Then Muriel spoke with a touch of scorn,
"Tis here I have dwelt ever since I was born;
I know each cupboard and cranny and nook,
And where to hide and where to look;
By moonlit wall or flickering hearth,
No phantom-child may cross our path."
Then some for frolic and some for fear,
Till the moon was gone, sought far and near,
Till they met once more in the ruddy shine
Of the splintering fir and the fragrant pine;
And they heard from the wide banquet-hall
Glad sound of voices rise and fall.
For friends long parted there were found
Who passed the toast and pledge around,
And prayed for tumult and strife to cease,
And cried, "Long live King George in peace!"
At dark, on the morrow, in joyous train
The playmates rushed through the house again;
They looked at the armour, they peered in each nook,
And curtains of 'broidery rare they shook,
Nor knew, so engrossing the quest had grown,
That a stranger had followed alone, alone.
Beside the bright hearth again they met
Save Christopher only, who lingered yet,
For far in the gloom did the maiden stand
With the shining eyes and the wee white hand.
Then a childish voice, in accents clear,
Asked, "What do you do, little maiden, here?"
Her eyes replied that she might not tell,
With a wave of her hand she said, "Farewell!"
And away she ran through the wildering place,
And he followed her steps; 'twas a fairy race,
For she taught him magic of tapestry,
And steps in the deep of earth to see.
At a low dark door she beckoned to him,
And they entered a chamber cold and dim.
A sorrowful man sat there asleep,
And his wife beside him watch did keep,
And she wrung her hands in wild despair,
At sight of the boy so young and fair.
"O child! what have you done?" she cried;
And the weeping maiden low replied,
"Away from the gloom, while my father slept,
Up winding stairs I groped and crept,
Till far in a gallery long I strayed,
And watched how a troop of children played.
In race so glad and free they came,
I could not choose but follow the game;
One playmate lingered too behind,
But I fear no ill from one so kind."
In wonder stood Sir Christopher there,
Till the lady pointed to the chair,
And said, "Yon hapless fugitive,
By your grace alone may die or live,
For a price is set upon his head,
And our friends are all in prison or dead,
And the prince, our king we deem by right,
But three months since was saved by flight.
The squire, God bless him evermore,
To our urgent need hath opened his door,
And granted us here to wait in dread
While two long days and a night have sped,
For we are sorrowing outcasts all,
Who dare not walk where the sunbeams fall,
Yet still this night we hoped to flee
To a safer land beyond the sea."
He knew that his father, brave in strife,
For the Stewart prince had given his life;
But as he stood, no questioning
Perplexed his mind of rightful king.
The ready childish tears must rise
As he looked at her with his loyal eyes,
And he only said, "This night I'll pray
That you may softly flee away;
And I will pray that the snow may fall
And hide your parting steps from all."
And then he bade them all good night,
And groped his way in the warmth and light.
In sleep his eyelids scarcely fell—
He feared in his dreams the tale to tell;
But something said, when the night had past,
Those sorrowful ones were safe at last,
And full four hours o'er meadow and park
The kind soft snow had lain in the dark.
They talked in the manor-house many a year
Of their moonlit sport and their foolish fear;
But the secret wrung from a game of play
Sir Christopher kept to his dying day.
Aunt C. Here is a coloured picture for to-night, and Gracie has her contribution ready, from an old friend, Cowper's translation from Vincent Bourne.
THE CRICKET.
Little inmate, full of mirth,
Chirping on my kitchen hearth,
Wheresoe'er be thine abode,
Always harbinger of good;
Pay me for thy snug retreat
With a song more soft and sweet,
In return thou shalt receive
Such a strain as I can give.
Thus thy praise shall be exprest,
Inoffensive, welcome guest!
While the rat is on the scout,
And the mouse with curious snout,
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