A Bugle Call.
“Hulloa, Bassie! I thought this fine morning would bring you over. The sap’s running strong, and the quail are gathering thick in the young wheat. Hear to them whistling. Where’s your gun?”
“I did not come to shoot.”
“Soh! Well, you don’t look like shooting. Been eating too much green fruit?”
“I’ve passed the green fruit stage, Abe.”
“I ain’t; there’s nothing better’n a pie of green apricots with cream, and green mealies is better’n kissing. You’re not in love, are you?”
“I have been writing poetry,” I said, with an air of unconcern; “and I want to take your opinion of it.”
“Fire away,” said Abe, fetching up a judicial expression; “it’s many a year since I learnt poetry, my boy—many a year. The ole mum onct, in the moonlight, when I were knee high, read to me outer a torn sheet she had, and these words I remember:
“‘He prayeth best who loveth best
All things, both great and small;
For the dear God that loveth us,
He made and loveth all.’
“Long years agone the old mother read that outer a torn slip of paper, and I know it yet, sonny. I’d like to year some more.”