“But you don’t think it makes any difference, Tom?”
“Not make any differ, mistress? Why look at my trees this year.”
“Oh, they are loaded enough, Tom,” said Mace, smiling; “but would they not have borne as well without that noise the lads made on New Year’s Eve?”
“Not they, mistress. I like the boys to come round to the orchards, and shout and go round the apple-trees in a ring,” he said, stopping to hold his reaping-hook horizontally, and making a movement with his left hand, as if to complete the circle, while he closed his eyes and repeated the following doggerel, as if it were some sacred verse:—
‘Stand fast, root; bear well, top;
Pray the God send us a good howling crop.
Every twig apples big;
Every bough apples enow;
Hats full, caps full,
Full quarters sacks full.’
“That’s it, mistress; that brings the apples. There’s a fine cluster o’ little wild strawbries here,” he cried, as he “brushed,” as he called it, the thistles and nettles that were springing up under the orchard trees.
“I’ll bring a basket and pick them, Tom,” cried Mace; and she ran quickly back to the house.
“A swap soon gets dull, master,” said Tom, stopping to sharpen the broad-bladed reaping-hook he held, and gazing the while after Mace. “Eh, but it ought to be a girt and good man, master, who has young mistress for a wife. A king wouldn’t be good enough for she.”
“Right, Tom,” said the founder. “Hallo, what’s the matter?” he cried, as Mace came running back in a state of great excitement.
“The bees, father—a swarm.”