A PICTURE by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE

@3No bell and steeple—let there be for me
The blackbird calling from his lilac tree.@1

Grandfather in his broadcloth goes
To hear the Parson's Sunday prose;

He sleeps the sermon safely through,
Behind his pillar out of view;

For never dangerous doctrine ran
From Parson Tom; he knows his man,

And feeling his salvation sure
He points the morals with a snore,

Whereat with giggles all the girls
Do shake their rows of dancing curls.

Here is the flame of young romance
Oft nourished by a subtle glance,

And Cupid lifts beneath the nose
Of Dame Theology the rose

That quivers on Clarinda's heart
Responsive to the looks that dart

Whence Colin, tired of parables,
The herdsmen's quarrel at the wells,

Contents him with the lovely shape
That glances through Clarinda's cape.

Among the boys some bench is cut,
Or one essays the traitor nut,

Which pops, whereat with cheeks aflame
The kernel's fumbled in his shame,

And, rolling underneath a pew,
Is out of reach, but still in view.

And through the whispers, nut, and knife,
Lot's wife, and yet again Lot's wife.

Outside, his tale the blackbird spins,
The tributary thrush begins

To praise the blue audaciously
With daring turns of melody.

And now the Parson ends his prose,
The hymn is sung, grandfather goes

Serenely home, and quite assured
He profited, and never snored,

And thumps the turfy path apace—
Says, sleep in Church is sheer disgrace.

Now Colin, free of circumstance,
Pursues Clarinda with romance,

Forgiving all the herdsmen's strife,
Lot's wife, and yet again Lot's wife.

@3No bell and steeple—let there be for me
The blackbird calling from his lilac tree.@1

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