We will plant a garden,
Eve-like, as the warden
Of the hope of men unborn, future of the race;
Tears that we were weeping,
Watering our keeping,
Till we make the New World joy's own dwelling place.
Priscilla Mullins stopped short and looked with amazement on her younger companion.
"Did you make that song, Constance?" she demanded, being used to the rhyming which Constance made to entertain the little ones.
"It made itself, Pris," laughed Constance.
"Well, I'm no judge of songs, and as to rhyming I could match cat and rat if it was put to me to do, but no more. Yet it seemeth me that is a pretty song, with exactly the truth for its burden, and it trippeth as sweetly as the robin whistles. Do you know, Constance, it seems to me to run more into smooth cadences than the Metrical Psalms themselves!" Priscilla dropped her voice as she said this, as if she hoped to be unheard by the vengeance which might swoop down on her.
Constance's laugh rang out merrily, quite unafraid.
"Oh, dear Prissy, the Metrical Version was not meant to run in smooth cadences!" she cried. "Do you see why we should not sing as the robin whistles, being young and God's creatures, surely not less than the birds? Priscilla Mullins, there is John Alden awaiting us in the very spot where we are to work! How did he happen there, when no other man is about?"
"He spoke to me of helping us with the first heavy turning of the soil," said Priscilla, exceedingly red and uncomfortable, but constrained to be truthful. "Oh, Constance, never look at me like that! Can I help it that Master Alden is so considerate of us?"
"Sure-ly not!" declared Constance emphatically. "What about his returning home, Pris? He was hired but as cooper for the voyage, and would return. Will he go, think you?"
"He seems not fully decided. He said somewhat to me of staying." Poor Priscilla looked more than miserable as she said this, yet was forced to laugh.