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'The silk well could they twist and twine, And make the fair march pine, And with the needle work; And they could help the priest to say His matins on a holy day, And sing a psalm at kirk.' November 1585. Old Rhyme. |
The chastened sunshine of an All Saints' summer was lying upon the fair lawns and terrace walks of Wilton House, near Salisbury, in the year 1585. It was November, but so soft and balmy was the air that even the birds were apparently ready to believe that winter was passed over and spring had come.
The thrushes and blackbirds were answering each other from the trees, and the air was filled with their melody and with the scent of the late flowers in the pleasance, lying close under the cloisters, facing the beautiful undulating grounds of Lord Pembroke's mansion near Salisbury.
The graceful figure of a lady was coming down the grassy slope towards the house; a boy of five or six years old, with a miniature bow and arrow in his hand, at her side.
'I would like another shot at this old beech tree, mother,' the child said. 'I do not care to come in to my tasks yet.'
'Will must be an obedient boy, or what will Uncle Philip say, if he comes to-day and finds him in disgrace with his tutor?'
'Uncle Philip isn't here,' the child said.
'But he will be ere noon. I have had a despatch from him; he is already at Salisbury, and may be here at any hour.'
At this moment Lady Pembroke saw one of her ladies hastening towards her, and exclaimed,—
'Ah, Lucy! have you come to capture the truant?'