‘Stick to your herbs and planets,’ said Puck, laughing. ‘You should have told the magistrates, Nick, and had Jack fined. Again, why did you neglect your plain duty?’ ‘Because--because I was kneeling, and praying, and weeping with the rest of ‘em at the Altar-rails. In medicine this is called the Hysterical Passion. It may be--it may be.’ ‘That’s as may be,’ said Puck. They heard him turn the hay. ‘Why, your hay is half hedge-brishings,’ he said. ‘You don’t expect a horse to thrive on oak and ash and thorn leaves, do you?’ Ping-ping-ping went the bicycle bell round the corner. Nurse was coming back from the mill. ‘Is it all right?’ Una called. ‘All quite right,’ Nurse called back. ‘They’re to be christened next Sunday.’ ‘What? What?’ They both leaned forward across the half-door. It could not have been properly fastened, for it opened, and tilted them out with hay and leaves sticking all over them. ‘Come on! We must get those two twins’ names,’ said Una, and they charged uphill shouting over the hedge, till Nurse slowed up and told them. When they returned, old Middenboro had got out of his stall, and they spent a lively ten minutes chasing him in again by starlight. ‘Our Fathers of Old’ Excellent herbs had our fathers of old-- Excellent herbs to ease their pain-- Alexanders and Marigold, Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane, Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue, (Almost singing themselves they run) Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you-- Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun. Anything green that grew out of the mould Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old. Wonderful tales had our fathers of old-- Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars-- The Sun was Lord of the Marigold, Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars. Pat as a sum in division it goes-- (Every plant had a star bespoke)-- Who but Venus should govern the Rose? Who but Jupiter own the Oak? Simply and gravely the facts are told In the wonderful books of our fathers of old. Wonderful little, when all is said, Wonderful little our fathers knew. Half their remedies cured you dead-- Most of their teaching was quite untrue-- ‘Look at the stars when a patient is ill, (Dirt has nothing to do with disease,) Bleed and blister as much as you will, Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.’ Whence enormous and manifold Errors were made by our fathers of old. Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, And neither planet nor herb assuaged, They took their lives in their lancet-hand And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door-- Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled, Excellent courage our fathers bore-- Excellent heart had our fathers of old. Not too learned, but nobly bold, Into the fight went our fathers of old.