"Ah!" says Father, "that is not an ill Call. And when we have discussed our neat Repast, thou, Ned, shalt touch the Theorbo, and let us hear thy balmy Voice. Time was, when thou didst sing like a young Chorister."
. . . Just as we were returning to the House, Mary ran forth, crying, "Oh, Deb! you have not seen our Cow. She has just been milked, and is being turned out, even now, to the Pasture. See, there she is; but all the Others have gone out of Sight, over the Hill."
Mother observed, "Left to herself, she will go, her own Calf speedily seeking."
"My Dear," says Father, "that's a Hexameter: do try to make another."
"Indeed, Mr. Milton, I know nothing of Hexameters or Hexagons either: 'tis enough for me to keep all straight and tight. Let's to Supper."
Anne had crushed his Strawberries, and mixed them with Cream, and now she put his Spoon into his Hand, saying, in jest, "Father, this is Angels' Food, you know. I Have pressed the Meath from many a Berry, and tempered dulcet Creams."
"Hush, you Rogue," says he; "Ned will find us out."
"Is Uncle still at his great Work?" whispers Cousin to Mother.
"Indeed, I know not if you call it such," she replies, in the same Undertone. "He hath given over all those grand Things with hard Names, that used to make him so notable abroad, and so esteemed by his own Party at Home; and now only amuses himself by making the Bible a Peg to hang his Idlenesse upon."
Sure what a Look Ned gave her! Fearful lest Father should overhear (for Blindness quickens the other Senses), he runs up to the Bookshelf, and cries, "Why, Uncle, you have brought down Plenty of Entertainment with you! Here are Plato, Xenophon, and Sallust, Homer and Euripides, Dante and Petrarch, Chaucer and Spenser, . . . and . . . oh, oh! you read Plays sometimes, though you were so hard upon Shakspeare. . . . Here's 'La Scena Tragica d' Adamo ed Eva,' dedicated to the Duchess of Mantua."