"Now, Joseph, your song, please." said Bathsheba, from the window.
"Well, really, ma'am." he replied, in a yielding tone, "I don't know what to say. It would be a poor plain ballet of my own composure."
Hear, hear!" said the supper-party.
Poorgrass, thus assured, trilled forth a flickering yet commendable piece of sentiment, the tune of which consisted of the key-note and another, the latter being the sound chiefly dwelt upon. This was so successful that he rashly plunged into a second in the same breath, after a few false starts: -I sow'-ed th'-e I sow'-ed I sow'-ed the'-e seeds' of love', I-it was' all' i'-in the'-e spring', I-in A'-pril', Ma'-ay, a'-nd sun'-ny' June', When sma'-all bi'-irds they' do' sing.
"Well put out of hand." said Coggan, at the end of the verse. `They do sing' was a very taking paragraph."
"Ay; and there was a pretty place at "seeds of love." and 'twas well heaved out. Though "love " is a nasty high corner when a man's voice is getting crazed. Next verse, Master Poorgrass."
But during this rendering young Bob Coggan exhibited one of those anomalies which will afflict little people when other persons are particularly serious: in trying to check his laughter, he pushed down his throat as much of the tablecloth as he could get hold of, when, after continuing hermetically sealed for a short time, his mirth burst out through his nose. Joseph perceived it, and with hectic cheeks of indignation instantly ceased singing. Coggan boxed Bob's ears immediately.
"Go on, Joseph -- go on, and never mind the young scamp." said Coggan. "'Tis a very catching ballet.
Now then again -- the next bar; I'll help ye to flourish up the shrill notes where yer wind is rather wheezy: -O the wi'-il-lo'-ow tree' will' twist', And the wil'-low' tre'-ee wi'ill twine'.
But the singer could not be set going again. Bob Coggan was sent home for his ill manners, and tranquility was restored by Jacob Smallbury, who volunteered a ballad as inclusive and interminable as that with which the worthy toper old Silenus amused on a similar occasion the swains Chromis and Mnasylus, and other jolly dogs of his day.
It was still the beaming time of evening, though night was stealthily making itself visible low down upon the ground, the western lines of light taking the earth without alighting upon it to any extent, or illuminating the dead levels at all. The sun had crept round the tree as a last effort before death, and then began to sink, the shearers' lower parts becoming steeped in embrowning twilight, whilst their heads and shoulders were still enjoying day, touched with a yellow of selfsustained brilliancy that seemed inherent rather than acquired.