That smail, for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.

The Pair had but one inmate in their house,

An only child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,

Made all their household. I may truly say,

That they were as a proverb in the Vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors

The son and father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to their cleanly supper board, and there
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Nat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,

And their plain home made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow

Large space beneath, as duly as the light

Of day grow dim, the Housewife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn-and late,

Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which going by from year to year, had found

And left the couple neither gay perhaps

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life

The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,

And westward to the village near the lake;

And from this constant light, so regular

And so far seen, the house itself, by all

Who dwelt within the limits of the Vale,
Both old and young, was named the Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years, The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart This son of his old age was yet more dear— Effect which might perhaps have been produced By that instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit which is in the blood of all

Or that a child, more than all other gifts,

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they

By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts

Of the old man his only son was now

The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him.

His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,

Had done him female service, not alone
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And, in a later time, ere yet the boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

To have the young one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old oak, which near their door
Stood,―and from its enormous breadth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree,26 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 equipped
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