Then weeks and weeks rolled slowly by, And nothing strange had met the eye. The birds had ris'n every morn, And frightened been from off the corn. The bees had sipped the flow'ry juice, Preparing it for private use. The sheep had parted with their fleece; They held it on uncertain lease. The fruit had all been plucked, or fell, And made more ill than tongue can tell. The golden grain by reapers' care, Had strewn the rich fields everywhere; And filled the barns with Nature's store, For winter's use when summer's o'er. For Autumn's sunny days are past, And gloomy clouds are gathering fast. While northern gales assail the trees, Their treasures scattering to the breeze. Poor Peter, through unlucky fate, Has not been fishing out of late. He cannot fly that fearful dream, Which in the dusky night will seem To float before his slumb'ring gaze To fright his heart, and thoughts amaze. The Abbot fills him, too, with fear; He fancies he is always near, He cannot from his presence get, But feels like some one dunn'd for debt. And trembles when he meets those eyes That love to catch him by surprise. But dogs can't always watchful keep; Most wide-awake men sometimes sleep; And Peter gains a short respite From thoughts which needlessly affright. For really he was watched by none, Save what his conscience may have done. O day of bliss! O joyful day! The Abbot hastens far away, And comes not back till morrow's night! Old Peter seems delighted quite. "I will dine and will sup too off Jack," said he; "Nicely lined with veal stuffing. What joy! what glee! Let me see, where's my tackle? In yonder hole; I must catch a few gudgeon and have a troll. O I know a snug spot where the river runs deep, And there I will be ere they wake from their sleep. I will see that their breakfast is nicely made, And that, also, the reckoning's duly paid. * * * * * _CHAPTER THE EIGHTH._ The morn was dull when Peter rose; And stormy, like the north wind blows; While the dark sky too plainly shows Ere long there will be rain. "But still," thinks he; "I'll go in spite; 'Twill sharpen up their appetite, And make them all the better bite; Such chance to lose gives pain. I tarry may a month or more, Till Christmas comes perchance, before I shall another day secure; If so, I'll go again. Then, with what food he could procure, He hurried through the Abbey door; But oft looked back to make quite sure; His fears were really vain.