_Stranger_. But ’twill be lighter and more chearful now, A fine smooth turf, and with a gravel road Round for the carriage,—now it suits my taste. I like a shrubbery too, it looks so fresh, And then there’s some variety about it. In spring the lilac and the gueldres rose, And the laburnum with its golden flowers Waving in the wind. And when the autumn comes The bright red berries of the mountain ash, With firs enough in winter to look green, And show that something lives. Sure this is better Than a great hedge of yew that makes it look All the year round like winter, and for ever Dropping its poisonous leaves from the under boughs So dry and bare! _Old Man_. Ah! so the new Squire thinks And pretty work he makes of it! what ’tis To have a stranger come to an old house! _Stranger_. It seems you know him not? _Old Man_. No Sir, not I. They tell me he’s expected daily now, But in my Lady’s time he never came But once, for they were very distant kin. If he had played about here when a child In that fore court, and eat the yew-berries, And sat in the porch threading the jessamine flowers, That fell so thick, he had not had the heart To mar all thus. _Stranger_. Come—come! all a not wrong. Those old dark windows— _Old Man_. They’re demolish’d too— As if he could not see thro’ casement glass! The very red-breasts that so regular Came to my Lady for her morning crumbs, Won’t know the window now! _Stranger_. Nay they were high And then so darken’d up with jessamine, Harbouring the vermine;—that was a fine tree However. Did it not grow in and line The porch? _Old Man_. All over it: it did one good To pass within ten yards when ’twas in blossom. There was a sweet-briar too that grew beside. My Lady loved at evening to sit there And knit; and her old dog lay at her feet And slept in the sun; ’twas an old favourite dog She did not love him less that he was old And feeble, and he always had a place By the fire-side, and when he died at last She made me dig a grave in the garden for him. Ah I she was good to all! a woful day ’Twas for the poor when to her grave she went! _Stranger_. They lost a friend then? _Old Man_. You’re a stranger here Or would not ask that question. Were they sick? She had rare cordial waters, and for herbs She could have taught the Doctors. Then at winter When weekly she distributed the bread In the poor old porch, to see her and to hear The blessings on her! and I warrant them They were a blessing to her when her wealth Had been no comfort else. At Christmas, Sir! It would have warm’d your heart if you had seen Her Christmas kitchen,—how the blazing fire Made her fine pewter shine, and holly boughs So chearful red,—and as for misseltoe, The finest bough that grew in the country round Was mark’d for Madam. Then her old ale went So bountiful about! a Christmas cask, And ’twas a noble one! God help me Sir! But I shall never see such days again. _Stranger_. Things may be better yet than you suppose And you should hope the best.