'She'd say you're settin' too long over this old pit, so late as 'tis already,' said old Hobden's voice behind them. 'Hst!' he whispered. He stood still, for not twenty paces away a magnificent dog-fox sat on his haunches and looked at the children as though he were an old friend of theirs. 'Oh, Mus' Reynolds, Mus' Reynolds!' said Hobden, under his breath. 'If I knowed all was inside your head, I'd know something wuth knowin'. Mus' Dan an' Miss Una, come along o' me while I lock up my liddle hen-house.' A PICT SONG Rome never looks where she treads, Always her heavy hooves fall On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl. Her sentries pass on--that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords. We are the Little Folk--we! Too little to love or to hate. Leave us alone and you'll see How we can drag down the Great! We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root! We are the germ in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot! Mistletoe killing an oak-- Rats gnawing cables in two-- Moths making holes in a cloak-- How they must love what they do! Yes--and we Little Folk too, We are as busy as they-- Working our works out of view-- Watch, and you'll see it some day! No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are. Yes, and we'll guide them along, To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves, But you--you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves! We are the Little Folk, we, etc. HAL O' THE DRAFT Prophets have honour all over the Earth, Except in the village where they were born, Where such as knew them boys from birth Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn. When Prophets are naughty and young and vain, They make a won'erful grievance of it; (You can see by their writings how they complain), But Oh, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet! There's nothing Nineveh Town can give (Nor being swallowed by whales between), Makes up for the place where a man's folk live, That don't care nothing what he has been. He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this, But they love and they hate him for what he is. A rainy afternoon drove Dan and Una over to play pirates in the Little Mill. If you don't mind rats on the rafters and oats in your shoes, the mill-attic, with its trap-doors and inscriptions on beams about floods and sweethearts, is a splendid place. It is lighted by a foot-square window, called Duck Window, that looks across to Little Lindens Farm, and the spot where Jack Cade was killed.