"Oh, yes; to be sure."
"Well, a poet makes ballads and songs, and things of that kind."
"Oh, lauks-o'me! why the gentleman said it was a great man."
"Well, he was just what I tell you—a poet—a ballad maker, and all that. Nothing more, I assure you."
"Good lauk-a-me! how could the gentleman say it was a great man! Is it the same man you mean, think you?"
"Oh! no doubt of it. But let me see your garden."
The sister went to show it me. There were, as I have said, two gardens, lying high above the house, so that you could see over part of the town, and, in the other direction, the upland slopes and hills. Behind the garden was still the orchard, in which Coleridge had so often mused. Returning toward the house, the remains of a fine bay-tree caught my attention, amid the ruins of the garden near the house, now defaced with weeds, and scattered with old tubs and empty beer barrels.
"That," said I, "was once a fine bay-tree."
"Ay, that was here when we came."
"No doubt of it. That poet planted it, as sure as it is there. That is just one of those people's tricks. Where they go they are always planting that tree."