She leered, and scowled, and coughed, and spat, while she shambled about talking, sometimes pinching Mousie’s cheek with her clawlike hand, or raising her skinny arm as if to strike her. It was a new experience for Mousie, and had she been given less to do, would have frightened her severely. As it was she just obeyed, and dared not question, far less object or make delay. Meanwhile Maria sat on the steps of the van, crooning over her baby. And the words of her song were these:-- “Holly stands within the hall, faire to behold; Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a-cold. Holly and his merry men they dancen and they sing; Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring. Ivy hath a smooth leaf, she wraps it like a cloak Round about the ash-tree, round about the oak. Holly hath his berries as red as any rose. The foresters, the hunters, they keep them fro’ the does. Ivy hath her berries as black as any sloe. For wayfarers a bitter wine as any they may know. Holly hath his birds, a full faire flocke-- The nightingale, the perpinguy, the gentle laverocke. And Ivy, good Ivy, what birds hast thou? None but the howlet that crieth Whoo, whoo.” Mousie heard these words as she peeled the potatoes, and liked the list of the birds’ names. She didn’t know, however, that she was listening to a song hundreds of years old, a song that has been sung by voices long since dead and silent. Yet there was the holly-tree in the hedge, as lusty as ever, his strong spiny leaves giving back the sunshine, each one a polished green. And below at his feet, creeping through a wattle and wrapping an old ash pollard, was the insidious ivy. “Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring.” There are some characters like Ivy, gentle and clinging, yet as terribly strong. They cannot stand alone, others must support them--yes, till the weight kills. And Ivy, the dependent, takes this service. At first tentatively, even timidly--one tender little trail innocently feeling its way up the great stem; no one would think there is any mischief here. But Ivy must know while she weaves her mats and meshes, that she kills to live. For all the fruit she bears is bitter. Throughout that day Robin lay sick and ailing in the gipsy’s van, and when Freedom came back from a long errand, she climbed into the van and stayed there, speaking to no one.