Ah, sirs, he kept his vow. Ye will not smile If, at the first, the best that he could do Was with his first poor penny-piece to buy A cat, and bring her home, under his coat By stealth (or else that termagant, the cook, Had drowned it in the water-butt, nor deemed The water worse to drink). So did he quell First his own plague, but bettered others, too. Now, in those days, Marchaunt Adventurers Shared with their prentices the happy chance Of each new venture. Each might have his stake, Little or great, upon the glowing tides Of high romance that washed the wharfs of Thames; And every lad in London had his groat Or splendid shilling on some fair ship at sea. So, on an April eve, Fitzwarren called His prentices together; for, ere long, The _Unicorn_, his tall new ship, must sail Beyond the world to gather gorgeous webs From Eastern looms, great miracles of silk Dipt in the dawn by wizard hands of Ind; Or, if they chanced upon that fabled coast Where Sydon, river of jewels, like a snake Slides down the gorge its coils of crimson fire, Perchance a richer cargo,--rubies, pearls, Or gold bars from the Gates of Paradise. And many a moon, at least, a faerie foam Would lap Blackfriars wharf, where London lads Gazed in the sunset down that misty reach For old black battered hulks and tattered sails Bringing their dreams home from the uncharted sea. And one flung down a groat--he had no more. One staked a shilling, one a good French crown; And one an angel, O, light-winged enough To reach Cathay; and not a lad but bought His pennyworth of wonder, So they thought, Till all at once Fitzwarren's daughter cried 'Father, you have forgot poor Whittington!' "Snails,' laughed the rosy marchaunt, 'but that's true! Fetch Whittington! The lad must stake his groat! 'Twill bring us luck!' 'Whittington! Whittington!' Down the dark stair, like a gold-headed bird, Fluttered sweet Alice. 'Whittington! Richard! Quick! Quick with your groat now for the _Unicorn_!'