THE CAGED BOUVEREL
I am a little finch with wings of gold,
I dwell within a cage upon the wall.
I cannot fly within my narrow fold,—
I eat, and drink, and sing, and that is all.
My good old master talks to me sometimes,
But if he knows my speech I cannot tell.
He is so large he cannot sing nor fly,
But he and I are both named Bouverel.
I think perhaps he really wants to sing,
Because the busy hammer that he wields
Goes clinking light as merry bells that ring
When morris-dancers frolic in the fields,
And this is what the music seems to tell
To me, the finch, the feathered Bouverel.
“Kling-a-ling—clack!
Masters, what do ye lack?
Hammer your heart in’t, and strike with a knack!
Flackety kling—
Biff, batico, bing!
Platter, cup, candlestick, necklace or ring!
Spare not your labor, lads, make the gold sing,—
And some day perhaps ye may work for the King!”
VI
AT THE SIGN OF THE GOLD FINCH
HOW GUY, THE GOLDSMITH’S APPRENTICE, WON THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART
Bang—slam—bang-bang—slam! slam! slam!
If anybody on the Chepe in the twelfth century had ever heard of rifle-practice, early risers thereabouts might have been reminded of the crackle of guns. The noise was made by the taking down of shutters all along the shop fronts, and stacking them together out of the way. The business day in London still begins in the same way, but now there are plate-glass windows inside the shutters, and the shops open between eight and nine instead of soon after day-break.