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“I spake to Happuch,” saith my wife, “because I did choose so to do. And as for the why o’ that wherefore, though thou shouldst smirk till doomsday like a dog scratching his ear, ne’er wilt thou get it out o’ me!”

Then saith I, being justly angered, as I think thou wilt admit, comrade–saith I,

“Thou art welcome to keep thy counsel!” saith I.

And I followed the example set me by my vixen, and did spend more than half the night at this very tavern.

Well, the next morning, as I did pass out on my way to my forge, whom should I see in the garden but my Keren and Master Robert Hacket! and if e’er a woman was possessed o’ a devil, ’twas just that lass o’ mine then, comrade. She had caused young Hacket to climb up into a pear-tree, and while that he was up there she did bear away the ladder by which he had mounted, and she saith to him,

“Now, Master Robin, I am going to sing thee a song. Wilt thou listen?”

“With all my heart,” saith he. So he leaned on his elbow, stretched out like a young panther along the limb o’ th’ tree, and looked down on her. Now, as I live, down went that jade on her knees in the grass, and she lifts up her two pretty hands to him as though in prayer, and thus sings she (I knew the song by heart):

“‘Listen, Robin, while I woo.
This world’s stale with repetition:
I’ll not do as others do;
Haste thee, love, to my tuition.
Robin, I’ll make love to you,
As men to other maidens do.

“‘Oh, what eyes my Robin hath!
April fields own no such blue;
In the luscious aftermath
There’s no flower so fair to view.
Robin, Robin, hear me woo.
All my soul’s in love with you!

“‘Robin, will you marry me?–
Thus upon my knees I sue:
O’ my word I’ll harry thee
Like as men their sweethearts do.
Robin, as I live I’m true:
Will you wed me, Robin?–Will you?'”

Now, what chanced thereupon I think thou wilt agree with me, comrade, in saying it did but serve her right. Down falls he like a ripe pomewater at her side, and takes her about the waist, and sets his mouth to hers (all in a twink, comrade; thou hadst not time to shape thy mouth for a whistle ere ’twas all done, or verily my mouth had given forth something besides whistling), and saith he,

“That will I, lass; an’ if thou be not my wife ere that snail-coming new moon doth thrust out her horns, my name is not Hacket, nor will thine be!”

Now, comrade, though it doth shame me verily so to speak o’ mine own flesh, I saw by her pretending to push him away that she did mightily relish his kisses; for, by my troth! had she sought to scuffle with him ‘twould ‘a’ been as snug an encounter as when day and night wrestle for the last bit o’ a June sky.

And she saith to him, feigning to scowl, “How now, thou rapscallion! dost thou dare?”

“Ay, ay,” quoth he, “in verity I do!” quoth he. And in verity a did, too.

But just as I was consulting with the Lord how to act, He having had even a greater experience with wayward children than myself (may He pardon me if I be too free with His holy name!)–just, I say, as I was asking Him to show me in what wise to proceed, up goes her hand, and she gives him a sound cuff o’ th’ ear (young Hacket’s ear–not the Lord’s; may He pardon me if so it sounded), and she saith,

“Take that for striving to make a fool out o’ an honest girl! I know thy goings on with Ruth Visor,” saith she. “Thou’lt ne’er blind me with thy pretty speecheries.” And a was o’er th’ palings and out o’ sight like a wind-blown leaf.