OUR FIELD.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which, having been, must ever be.
* * * * *
And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not of any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;
* * * * *
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears:
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
_Wordsworth_.
OUR FIELD
There were four of us, and three of us had godfathers and godmothers.
Three each. Three times three make nine, and not a fairy godmother in
the lot. That was what vexed us.
It was very provoking, because we knew so well what we wanted if we
had one, and she had given us three wishes each. Three times three
make nine. We could have got all we wanted out of nine wishes, and
have provided for Perronet into the bargain. It would not have been
any good Perronet having wishes all to himself, because he was only a
dog.
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