"And that house whereto thou art now going, shall I ever see thee there?" said Osberne. "Surely I deem that thou shalt; and yet most surely not till thine earthly days are over. But now farewell, and my heart goes with thee." Therewith he turned and was gone, and Osberne went his ways to Wethermel without looking after him. And now it seemed to him as if he had been fain not to have gone back to that well-beloved stead, but to have gone on east at all adventure; and he looked toward the day when he must depart at last as a sad and sore time, when hope would be dimmed by mere sorrow and trouble. Chapter XXXVI. The Staves which Osberne Taught to the Dalesmen Now all folk at Wethermel when they looked upon Osberne's face deemed that he was bettering of the drearihood which had weighed on him ever since the battle with the strong-thieves, and of that bettering they were right glad, for they were wont to have much joy of his fellowship. Came on therewith the Midsummer Feast of the Cloven Mote, which, as aforesaid, was the greatest of all the feasts of the Dalesmen, and Osberne was there with a countenance of good cheer no worser than the best. Now at this feast not only did they do in the heedfullest and solemnest wise all that belonged to Midsummer, as the Trundling of the Fiery Wheel, and the Kindling of the Bale, and the Leaping through the Fire; but also before noon, and ere these plays were begun, was high mass sung in the goodliest fashion in each of the two churches of Allhallows for the good rest of them who had fallen manfully in battle with the thieves. And last of all, when the summer night was as dark as it would be before the dawn, and the folk of the two sides were all ranged each in a line on their own shore of the river, they sang these staves from side to side across the Sundering Flood, the Westdalers beginning, and then the Eastdalers taking it up: Tis Summer and night, Little dusk and long light, Little loss and much gain When the day must needs wane, Little bitter, much sweet From the weed to the wheat; Little moan, mickle praise Of the Midsummer days, When the love of the sleeping sun lieth along And broodeth the acres abiding the song. Were the spring to come o'er And again as before, What then would ye crave From the summer to have? Sweeter grass would ye pray, And more lea-lading hay? For more wheat would ye cry, Thicker swathe of the rye? Stouter sons would ye ask for, and daughters more dear? Well-willers more trusty than them ye have here? O the wheat is yet green But full fair beseen, And the rye groweth tall By the turfen wall. Thick and sweet was the hay On the lealand that lay; Dear daughters had we, Sons goodly to see, And of all the well-willers ere trusted for true The least have ye failed us to deal and to do.