At a little distance grazed an old horse, gray and gaunt, springhalt and spavined, with ribs like Death's own.

Its saddle and bridle adorned a limb of the oak.
The song went cheerfully on:-- "'Much ado there was, God wot: would love and she would not; said, "Never man was true." He said, "None was false to you."'" "Give you good-day, reverend sir!" I called.

"Art conning next Sunday's hymn ?" Nothing abashed, Master Jeremy Sparrow gently shook off the squirrels, and getting to his feet advanced to meet us.
"A toy," he declared, with a wave of his hand, "a trifle, a silly old song that came into my mind unawares, the leaves being so green and the sky so blue.

Had you come a little earlier or a little later, you would have heard the ninetieth psalm.

Give you good-day madam.