And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
When nightly sings the staring owl,
‘Tu-whit! tu-whoo!’ a dismal note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.”
For my part, I like hearing the owl; perhaps because Shakspere has linked it with immortal verse. Dismal it is, I suppose—something like the forlorn cry of a belated traveller for assistance: its association with darkness and horror makes more vivid the contrast of the light twinkling through the casement, the crab-apples roasting and sputtering as they are popped, scalding hot, into the wassail-bowl, and Mrs. Joan’s assurance to the hospitable host that she has had “quite enough,” and has quite emptied her mug, to verity which, she turns it topsy-turvy—top-side t’other way.
Down comes the rain!—and enters Miss Burt with dripping umbrella, and dress hooked in festoons above her ancles, to tell me the Pevenseys reach home to-day. She is full of the news, and has carried it on to the Seckers.