Calling? Ay!
And they’ve been at it all the blessed day,
As on the day I came to Krindlesyke.
Likely the new bride—though ’twasn’t at the time
I noticed them: too heedless and new-fangled.
She may be different: she may hear them now:
They’re noisy enough.
Ezra:
I cannot catch a note:
I’m getting old, and deaved as well as darkened.
When I was young, I liked to hear the whaups
Calling to one another down the slacks:
And I could whistle, too, like any curlew.
’Twas an ancient bird wouldn’t answer my call: and now
I’m ancient myself—an old, blind, doddering heron,
Dozing his day out in a syke, while minnows
Play tiggy round his shanks and nibble his toes;
And the hawk hangs overhead. But then the blood
Was hot, and I’d a relish—such a relish!
Keen as a kestrel ... and now ...
Eliza:
It’s Jim and Phœbe—
The music and the dazzle in their heads:
And they’ll be here ...
Ezra:
I wish he’d married Judith:
She’s none the worse for being a ruddled ewe.
Eliza:
Nay, God forbid! At least, I’m spared that bildert.
(Ezra rises; and Eliza carries out his chair, and he hobbles after her. She soon returns, and puts griddle-cakes into the oven to keep hot. Presently a step is heard on the threshold, and Judith Ellershaw stands in the doorway, a baby in her arms. Eliza does not notice her for a few moments; then, glancing up, recognizes her with a start.)