William Gurney. The hundred acres, golden with the hopes Of Farmer Morton, murmured to the toil Of many reapers, and the listening farm Lay buried to the eaves in harvest-home. The land was big with harvest and the sun Smiled bright approval on the golden days, When Mary Morton fied her father’s door, And William Gurney took his scythe to reap Among the reapers. Men and women shrank And sought not commune with their moody mate ; For William, with his three-and-twenty springs, Was counted old in evil, having won A name below allenvy. But he toiled Early and late, nor sported in his toil, And reaped his golden acre while his mates Mowed in their gladness at their golden roods. So that he garnered favour in the eyes Of Matthew Morton, and the Farmer held The man was goodlier than his merry mates. But William Gurney, thinking as he reaped Among the reapers, dreamed a bitter dream About a weeping woman whom he loved Less than he wished to love her ; oftentimes Her voice would seem to mingle with the sounds Of harvest, and the music of her tears Came in the sobbing of the autumn rain. Her father, who had loved to think Of a dear daughter in her bridal dress, Sought long and vain the author of her wrong. The reapers frolicked in the sun-kissed field Breast-deep in dingy gold, and William toiled Both late and early. Then it came to pass In the mid-harvyest, that the Farmer’s dame Fulfilled her travail once again, and bore Her second babe, a boy ; and Matthew gave A feast in honour of his happy dame And of her boy. So all the place was loud With holiday, and men and women donned Their best to dance away a merry night ; But bitter William Gurney hung apart, Caught in a mood that fretted at the din Of merry-making. Then the Farmer’s heart Waxed wroth ; and, chafing in his age he joined The hue-and-cry among the harvesters, And argued all his babe against the man. But on the morrow morning William toiled In silence, never sporting in his toil. And when the land-was laid and Autumn died ’Mid her drained vintage and her slanted sheaves, The reaper William Gurney took his hire And went his way. But, when the plenteous days Of vintage and of harvest came again, And farmers’ hearts were high, he reaped once more Among the reapers—toiling, sick at heart, Early and late, nor sporting in his toil. One autumn noon the Farmer and his dame Walked through the fields of harvest with their child, Glad with the season : when it came to pass She laid the little babe ’mid harvest home Close to the spot where William bound the sheaves, And walked away a hundred yellow yards, Seeing not William. But the little babe Rolled in the sun and kicked among the corn, Laughing and crowing, stretching pinky arms. To cling about the reaper while he toiled. Then William frowned, and bitter wrinkles rolled Up to his eyes and hardened on his brows, And pain lay heavy on him ; but at last His heart flashed up and brightened unaware, And lights of laughter dimpled in his cheeks, And blushing like a girl he leaped a hedge And held the youngling in his hot hard hands, Talking a woman’s nothings to it, weak As a girl-mother. When the happy dame Came back to take her own, she lifted hands And flung a merry blessing from her merry eyes, To see the babe a-ride on William’s back, And William Gurney on his hands and knees Aping the canter of a four-year-old, As bashful as a milk-maid when she blows The soft sow-thistle. So the woman took Her own, and thanked the man with merry words, And clapped his shoulders thrice ; and William toiled Early and late, but sported in his toil. So William Gurney, casting off his scorn, Took kindly to the infant ; and the dame Knew with a woman’s instinct that its face Had thawed a childhood in the bitter heart Which loved it. When the yellow sheaves were laid, And Matthew Morton gathered in the year, The Farmer and his dame thought kindly thoughts Of William. When the reapers took their hire, Broad Matthew Morton kissed the babe and made A goodly offer to the moody man Who loved it. William Gurney in the end Made sullen pledge to see the winter out And do a labourer’s work about the farm. But when the Year had grown white-hair’d and old, Shrill-voiced, and thin, and grewsome in its age, It came to pass that men and women stole On tiptoe through the chambers of the farm, And Matthew Morton, peevish in his fear, Fretted amid his household. For the babe Lay grieved with sickness. William Gurney toiled And wore the old dark looks ; but when the night Stole down and darkened in-the grievous house, He watched the little infant now and then, And read the crying wishes in its eyes As with a woman’s instinct, feeling all The tenderer man at work about his heart. And when the little life was laid asleep, Dressed in its milk-white garments for the grave, And when the music of the churchyard bells Broke through the blood of Matthew and his name, He spoke not, weak as foam. But the good God Who willed so well that every mortal man Should know that he was once a little child, Heard William, when the pretty baby died, Mourn with a sense of joy. Ah ! true it is That fellowship with pity made this heart Yearn to a weeping woman and her babe, Just for the gladness held in utter tears. So in the very end it came to pass, When May was singing with a shining face, Like some fair angel singing songs of God, And writing God’s soft poems with the flowers, That Matthew Morton’s household caught a joy Due to the season, and the season spread Its many bounties with a sowing hand. For there had sprung in William Gurney’s heart A second birth of love, completer far Than first-love kisses ; and the love had borne Hopes sheltered in the bosom of stern will. Then erring Mary Morton, with her child, Knelt at the Farmer’s feet in tender tears, And William said, “I bring you back your child ; I, William Gurney, he who sinned the sin, And taught her tears, do bring you back your child My wedded wife.” But Matthew Morton shook, And turned away his face ; when William said, “ Behold the sin is chastened, and she is My wedded wife.” But Matthew Morton shook Down to the roots of life, and hid his face Between his hands. Then William, frowning, said, “ She is my wedded wife—my love and wife ; I love her, Matthew Morton. For the sake Of all she was, or only for the sake Of the poor youngling ye have lost, I say, Father, forgive her !”—when the old man’s soul Broke, and he fell upon his knees and wept, Praying. So William Gurney stood apart, While Matthew raised his daughter from the earth, Answering the love and gladness in her heart With smiles, and tears, and kisses. Thus the house Brightened, and listened to the light footfall Of Mary Morton’s child ; and William toiled Both late and early, happy in his toil. And Matthew took delight in Mary’s child, And loved it even as his own asleep ; And heard his name make music on its lips, Link’d to the lovely name which Mary gained After her travail. William Gurney toiled, Happy in toil, and many happy years Did Mary Morton live a thrifty life Among her children, William throve, and soon Had earned some golden acres of his own, And, dwelling in his household till the end, Sought out and brought to light the golden chain Which links a homely happiness to God.