SCENE 1.—The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time.
At the board are seated the Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant George Mosier, and little Tom. Babette is waiting at table.
Widow. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste
For want of labour, and the summer days,
So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force
On barren furrows. And then to think
That over both the Provinces it is the same,—
No men to till the land, because the war
Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist,—a double loss
To me. The times are anxious.
(To Sergeant Mosier.) Have you news?
Sergeant. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still
Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.
Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast,
And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.
Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow.
O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt,
That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires
Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.
Widow. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,
So courteous, and so gentle.
Babette. Ah, oui, madame.
So kind! not one rough word he ever had,
The Général, but bow so low, "Merci, Babette,"
For glass of milk, et petit chose comme ça.
Ah, long ago it must be he was French:
Some grand seigneur, sans doute, in Guernsey then.
Ah the brave man, madame, cé hero la!
Widow. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English.
Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts,
And calls the world its country, and its sex
Humanity.
Babette. Madame?
Widow. You do not understand me, not; but you
Were very brave and noble-hearted when
You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.