Thence in our rustic dialect was called

The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade, With others round them, earnest all and blithe, Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the child, if he disturbed the sheep

By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when, by Heaven's good grace, the boy grew up A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek

Two steady roses that were five years old,

Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate

That objects which the shepherd loved before
Were dearer now; that from the boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;

And that the old man's heart seemed born again ?

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up;

And now when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived From day to day, to Michael's ear there came Distressful tidings. Long before the time

Of which I speak, the shepherd had been bound In surety for his brother's son, a man

Of an industrious life, and ample means,—

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had pressed upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,-
A grievous penalty,—but little less

Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,

At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gathered so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love,
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot: the sun itself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;