Edith. Part II.—Chapter III.—Little EthelRev.ThomasAsheAshe, ThomasIllustratorFrederickWalkerWalker, Frederick
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DVPP Project TeamKaileyFukushimaUniversity of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry ProjectVictoria, BC, Canada
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Once a Week36156448–450It is nigh flood tide : fresh comes the
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Edith.By Thomas Ashe.
Part II.—Chapter III.—Little Ethel.It is nigh flood tide : fresh comes the
breeze from the river :Bright the sun looks down on the little harbour of Honfleur.Now it yields to Berthold a bitter pleasure to lingerStill awhile in her land, before he leave it for ever.All the morn he wander’d,—and it is pleasant to wanderIn that peaceful region,—along the shore or the hillsides.There are winding vales, the wind lulls in, by the orchardsWhite with apple bloom, around the homes of the peasant.There are shady lanes, the chaffinch loves, and the linnet.There are wooded hollows, you may find, and be lost in,Where the birds sing best, and wood-doves murmur contented ;Where, through some blue gap, as blue as wing of the swallow,Ships go by, to bear their freight o’er many a billow.There are wind-swept heights, with whin in bloom, and the heather,Where you dream, and hear the gray gull’s cry o’er the water.Thus awhile there stole a softer humour upon him.Nature touch’d his heart ; as sunbeams, falling in winter,Touch the ice, and melt it into tears for a season.Seem’d his love, for a moment, but as the dream of a dreamer.He, but half unhappy, and pleased, returning, to linger,Sat to rest awhile, a little tired with his ramble.Not a sweeter spot could he have chosen to rest in.As you climb from the town, between the rows of the houses,Crazy dim old houses, in awhile they are ended :Then the road grows steeper, and you must toil in ascending ;But fair elm trees keep the heat away, and the hillsideOn the left hand shields you. Thus you climb to the summit,Cool with elms and beeches, and dim in glare of the noonday.On the level top is fair green sward, and the benches,Placed by many a bole, are cut and carved by the pilgrims.Many pilgrims seek the little shrine of the ChapelOf our Lady of Grace, you see mid green of the branches.Women sit here, knitting, by their wares,—for the pious,Crosses, rosaries, books, and shells and toys for the children.On the steep slope edge, to catch the eye of the seamen,As they drop down tide, to fish, or fare o’er the ocean,Stands the Calvaire : hither mothers come, with the loved ones ;Teach the little hands to make the sign of religion,Teach the little knees to kneel awhile in devotionTo the Lord, the Son, and Mary, Israel’s Lily.Here you sit, and watch the sails go by, and the waterMurmurs far below, and blue and calm is the river ;And the sunshine gleams on white cliffs over the Channel,And Le Havre, dimly, meets the eye in the distance ;Then away to the left, and smooth’d of every ripple,Spreads the fair pale light and dim horizon of ocean.Here he sat, and dream’d of dim-grown days, and the changesTime will bring about ; and, now and then, in his dreaming,Mark’d a child of seven, a little girl, by the beeches,Peering round for flowers: and she was clad in the homespunWhich the poor folk wear, but had an air that was gentle.By and by, as taking but little heed of his presence,To the bench she stole ; and soon spread o’er it her plunder,—Violets, windflowers, and primroses, and the treasureWhich the spring time hoards in woods and shadowy places.She began to sort them, and neatly binding togetherThose not soil’d or broken, she laid them where he was seated :Then, with voice as sweet as birds that sadden at even,Spake, not looking up, as if she knew that he watch’d her :—“ These are for mamma : I am so glad : what a number !“ Violets, of all things ! for you must know that she loves them“ Best of all. How lucky ! Now mamma will be happy.”With a glad surprise he bent an ear to the musicOf his English tongue, heard in the land of the stranger.So he took the flowers, and, leaning o’er them, he answer’d,—“ Does she ? so do I.” “ O yes,” she said, “ and I wonder“ Who does not ! what scent !” then with her delicate fingersPluck’d the heads off many that lay beside her, rejected ;Shaping letters with them. “ There,” she said, “ do you know it ?“ Do you know my name ? But you be quiet a minute :“ I will make it for you. Letter E,—that begins it :“ T, H, E, then L : but I suppose you can spell it.“ That is all : now read it : there it is : LITTLE ETHEL.”Then she left the flowers, and came and lean’d with her elbowsOn his knees, and scann’d his pale face o’er, and was silent,With her thoughts, awhile : but he was charm’d with the strangenessOf the large brown eyes, so sad and dreamy and absent ;All too sad and absent, for a child, for the summersShe had known, so few. But, with her survey contented,Little Ethel smiled : she said—“ I knew you were English.“ So are we. Mamma is. I am, too.—Did I tell you ?“ My papa is dead. Is yours ?” He tenderly kissd her :“ Yes,” he said ; and, thinking, scarcely seem’ to rememberWhen he knew her first, he seem’d so long to have known her.“ That is why you are sad,” with look of sorrow she whisper’d.Berthold did not answer, but with his hand, that was gentleAs a woman’s, softly smoothed away from the foreheadOf his new-found friend the loose brown hair, for it wander’dWild, and seldom heeded. “ Yes,” he thought, “ you are pretty,“ Care-worn little face ;” and mused, and seem’d to rememberSuch a face, but could not. And then, because she was silent,He began to chatter, asking many a question,For he lov’d to hear the sweet low voice, as it murmur’dThis and that, confiding. “ Do you know how I like it,“ Talking here?” she said. “ We are so dull. You have never“ Come before up here, or I should surely have seen you ;“ For I come here often. And, yes, indeed, it is lovely.“ And it makes me well, mamma says. Now, I must tell you,“ I am not so strong, and ill sometimes in the winter.“ I come all myself : she sits at home with her knitting,“ All day long. She paints. O you should look at the pictures“ Which she does : such dear ones : full of roses and lilies !”He awhile was happy with the smiles and the prattleOf his tiny friend. The bitter load of his burdenStill a child could lessen. He was not wholly forsakenOf the God who keeps His dear ones tender and simple.