And in a later time, ere yet the Boy Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love, Albeit of a stern unbending mind, To have the young one in his sight, when he Had work by his own door, or when he sate With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool, Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd The CLIPPING TREE, [10] a name which yet it bears. [Footnote 10: Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.] There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep By catching at their legs, or with his shouts Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears. And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock, And to his office prematurely call'd There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hindrance and a help, And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his Father hire of praise. While this good household thus were living on From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before, the time Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound In surety for his Brother's Son, a man Of an industrious life, and ample means, But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim At the first hearing, for a moment took More hope out of his life than he supposed That any old man ever could have lost. As soon as he had gather'd so much strength That he could look his trouble in the face, It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he, Two evenings after he had heard the news, "I have been toiling more than seventy years, And in the open sun-shine of God's love Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think That I could not lie quiet in my grave."