“There is nothing,” he added, “so bad as betraying your salt—you understand—to live in a man’s house and kill him secretly—to give him food which is death. There are places where no man can trust his neighbor. You do not know what they are like. Your father is his own man.”
Barty felt that he had seen a great deal in the world since he left the farm in the Danelaw. He was glad to go with his father and Aunt Olive and David into the stately quiet church. The Prior of the monastery—Rahere had long been dead—was a famous preacher, Aunt Olive said, and often preached sermons in rhyme. They went through the long airy quiet rooms of the hospital where the monks were tending sick men, or helping them out into the sun. As they came out, past the box for offerings, and each gave something, Barty left there his silver groat.
“I’d rather Saint Bartlemy had it,” he said.
MIDSUMMER DAY IN ENGLAND
A thousand years ago this England drew
Into her magic circle Robin, Puck,
Friar Rush, the Jester—all the wizard crew
That foot it through the mazes for good luck.
Flyting and frisking through the Sussex lanes
They watched the Roman legions come and go,
And the tall ships that once were kingly Spain’s
Driven like drifting snow.
Midsummer Day in England! Faery bells
Blue as the skies—and wheat-fields poppy-sown.
Queen Mab’s own roses—hawthorn-scented dells,
And marshes where the bittern broods alone.
Bees of this garden, over Salisbury Plain
The circling airships drone!