‘“Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade, That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made!”
‘In silence Matthew lay, and eyed The spring beneath the tree; And thus the dear old man replied— The grey-haired man of glee:
‘“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears; How merrily it goes! ’Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.
‘“And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, a vigorous man, I lay Beside this fountain’s brink.
‘“My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those years I heard.
‘“Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what Age takes away Than what it leaves behind.”’
Here the lady paused. ‘I think these verses are all that I can remember of the poem at present. But they impressed themselves on my memory long since, as a delicious description of calmly happy old age, of friendship founded on sympathetic tastes, with a setting for the incident of the rural loveliness of an English summer day.’
Much applause was evoked by the recitation, given with taste and feeling.
‘Why, mother, I had no idea you had such a sentimental vein in your composition,’ said Hermione. ‘Vanda and I used to think you were quite stern about unprofitable reading, as you used to call anything but history and language in the old Carjagong days!’
‘Everything depends upon the proper time and place,’ replied Mrs. Banneret, with a quiet smile. ‘You girls and boys would have learned very little if you had not been kept to your morning lessons in those days.’
‘But we were so terribly fond of books,’ argued Vanda; ‘it ran in the blood. Why, father used to read on _horseback_, when he took those journeys to other goldfields and places—when he was driving, too—by himself; you know he did!’
‘It was very natural, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Banneret. ‘Riding or driving all day, by one’s self, is rather dull. Bishop Percy and his wife, a charming woman, travelled in all weathers, through the diocese, in a dog-cart. She used to read aloud while he drove.’
‘I remember them quite well,’ said Hermione, ‘when they stopped at our old station. I was quite a small child. They had no children. You couldn’t have done that, mother, though you would have liked it, I know.’