Читать книгу Fourth Reader - Various - Страница 15

Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare?

And merrily trotted along to the fair?

Of creature more tractable none ever heard;

In the height of her speed she would stop at a word;

But again, with a word, when the curate said “Hey!”

She put forth her mettle and galloped away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode,

While the sun of September all brilliantly glowed,

The good man discovered, with eyes of desire,

A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild-brier;

On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot,

Hung, large, black, and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot;

He shrunk from the thorns, though he longed for the fruit;

With a word he arrested his courser’s keen speed,

And he stood up erect on the back of his steed;

On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still,

And he gathered the fruit till he took his good fill.

“Sure never,” he thought, “was a creature so rare,

So docile, so true, as my excellent mare:

Lo, here now I stand,” and he gazed all around,

“As safe and as steady as if on the ground;

Yet how had it been if some traveller this way

Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry ‘Hey’?”

He stood with his head in the mulberry tree,

And he spoke out aloud in his fond reverie;

At the sound of the word the good mare made a push,

And the curate went down in the wild-brier bush.

He remembered too late, on his thorny green bed,

Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.