"It's the Provence rose," Barbara said. "I took the whole bush up and set it in a wooden bucket. Michael won't want that." Michael the poultryman was adding the little garden and the stall in the Poultry to his own business. He would cart away the little tumbledown cottage and plant kale there. "The Provence rose, is it?" queried Edrupt thoughtfully. "We'll have it beside our door, Barbara, and that will make you feel more at home." Both Barbara and the roses throve by transplanting. When Edrupt came home from his long foreign journey, more than a year later, it was rose-time, and Barbara, with a basket of roses on her arm, was marshaling a flock of most important mother-ducks with their ducklings into the poultry-yard. The house with its tiled and thatched roofs sat in the middle of its flocks and fruits and seemed to welcome all who came, and Dame Lysbeth, beaming from the window, looked so well content that it did him good to see her. HARPER'S SONG O listen, good people in fair guildhall-- (Saxon gate, Norman tower on the Roman wall) A King in forest green and an Abbot in gray Rode west together on the Pilgrims' Way, And the Abbot thought the King was a crossbowman, And the King thought the Abbot was a sacristan. (On White Horse Hill the bright sun shone, And blithe sang the wind by the Blowing Stone,-- O, the bridle-bells ring merrily-sweet To the clickety-clack of the hackney's feet!) Said the King in green to the Abbot in gray, "Shrewd-built is yon Abbey as I hear say, With Purbeck marble and Portland stone, Stately and fair as a Cæsar's throne." "Not so," quo' the Abbot, and shook his wise head,-- "Well-founded our cloisters, when all is said, But the stones be rough as the mortar is thick, And piers of rubble are faced with brick." (The Saxon crypt and the Norman wall Keep faith together though Kingdoms fall,-- O, the mellow chime that the great bells ring Is wooing the folk to the one true King!) Said the Abbot in gray to the King in green, "Winchester Castle is fair to be seen, And London Tower by the changeful tide Is sure as strong as the seas are wide." But the King shook his head and spurred on his way,-- "London is loyal as I dare say, But the Border is fighting us tooth and horn, And the Lion must still hunt the Unicorn." (The trumpet blared from the fortress tower, The stern alarum clanged the hour,-- O, the wild Welsh Marches their war-song sing To the tune that the swords on the morions ring!)