come to Birchover-lane, where the fripperers, or
sellers of old clothes, dwell. Of an evening, you
may often see an eve-cheping or night-market of
these fellows on London-bridge: yet, being
against the laws of the City, it is sometimes
put down by force. Leaving to the left an
ancient house, formerly a royal residence, we
come upon the Stokkes-market, where flesh and
fish are sold on flesh and fish days. The place
derives its name from the stocks which stood
there. Hard by, is the church of St. Mary,
called Wool-church, because in its haw or
churchyard is the beam whereby wool is
appointed to be weighed.

We have now entered the Poultry, the chief
abode of the poulterers. Down that turning, on
the left, where you see barges moored beside the
house, the stream of Walbrooke flows into the
Thames. Here is Soper's-lane, by which we will
repass into Thames-street. Ere you betake yourself
to your hostel, you must glance at the vast
stone vaults of the Vintry, where the French
merchants store their wines. In this mansion, some
few years since, Master Picard, then mayor, did
like a king feast the king himself, with the three
other kings of France, Scotland, and Cyprus,
the Prince of Wales, and divers nobles. After
the feast, we remember that the halls were
freely thrown open to all comers who would
play at dice and hazard. Next, you see the
Scrope's mansion of the Erber. Beyond, we
catch sight of the arched gates and watch-tower
of the Stilliard. Here, was formerly kept the
royal steelyard, or beam, for the tronage of
imports, now removed elsewhere. This place is
at present the guildhall and storehouse of the
Hanse merchants, who enjoy under royal charters
many trading privileges. The last building of
note is the mansion of Coldharborough, lately
inhabited by Sir John Poultney, four times mayor
of the City. Your hostel is hard by, where you
need to repose after your travel, and at which
for the present we leave you.

WILLIAM GURNEY.

THE hundred acres, golden with the hopes
Of Farmer Morton, murmured to the toil
Of many reapers, and the listening farm
Lay buried to the eaves in harvest-home.
The land was big with harvest and the sun
Smiled bright approval on the golden days,
When Mary Morton fled her father's door,
And William Gurney took his scythe to reap
Among the reapers.

                               Men and women shrank
And sought not commune with their moody mate;
For William, with his three-and-twenty springs,
Was counted old in evil, having won
A name below all envy. But he toiled
Early and late, nor sported in his toil,
And reaped his golden acre while his mates
Mowed in their gladness at their golden roods.
So that he garnered favour in the eyes
Of Matthew Morton, and the Farmer held
The man was goodlier than his merry mates.
But William Gurney, thinking as he reaped
Among the reapers, dreamed a bitter dream
About a weeping woman whom he loved
Less than he wished to love her; oftentimes
Her voice would seem to mingle with the sounds
Of harvest, and the music of her tears
Came in the sobbing of the autumn rain.
Her father, who had loved to think
Of a dear daughter in her bridal dress,
Sought long and vain the author of her wrong.

The reapers frolicked in the sun-kissed field
Breast-deep in dingy gold, and William toiled
Both late and early. Then it came to pass
In the mid-harvest, that the Farmer's dame
Fulfilled her travail once again, and bore
Her second babe, a boy; and Matthew gave
A feast in honour of his happy dame
And of her boy. So all the place was loud
With holiday, and men and women donned
Their best to dance away a merry night;
But bitter William Gurney hung apart,
Caught in a mood that fretted at the din
Of merry-making. Then the Farmer's heart
Waxed wroth; and, chafing in his age he joined
The hue-and-cry among the harvesters,
And argued all his babe against the man.
But on the morrow morning William toiled
In silence, never sporting in his toil.

And when the land was laid and Autumn died
'Mid her drained vintage and her slanted sheaves,
The reaper William Gurney took his hire
And went his way. But, when the plenteous days
Of vintage and of harvest came again,
And farmers' hearts were high, he reaped once more
Among the reapers—toiling, sick at heart,
Early and late, nor sporting in his toil.

One autumn noon the Farmer and his dame
Walked through the fields of harvest with their child,
Glad with the season: when it came to pass
She laid the little babe 'mid harvest home
Close to the spot where William bound the sheaves,
And walked away a hundred yellow yards,
Seeing not William. But the little babe
Rolled in the sun and kicked among the corn,
Laughing and crowing, stretching pinky arms
To cling about the reaper while he toiled.
Then William frowned, and bitter wrinkles rolled
Up to his eyes and hardened on his brows,
And pain lay heavy on him; but at last
His heart flashed up and brightened unaware,
And lights of laughter dimpled in his cheeks,
And blushing like a girl he leaped a hedge
And held the youngling in his hot hard hands,
Talking a woman's nothings to it, weak
As a girl-mother. When the happy dame
Came back to take her own, she lifted hands
And flung a merry blessing from her merry eyes,
To see the babe a-ride on William's back,
And William Gurney on his hands and knees
Aping the canter of a four-year-old,
As bashful as a milk-maid when she blows
The soft sow-thistle. So the woman took
Her own, and thanked the man with merry words,
And clapped his shoulders thrice; and William toiled
Early and late, but sported in his toil.

So William Gurney, casting off his scorn,
Took kindly to the infant; and the dame
Knew with a woman's instinct that its face
Had thawed a childhood in the bitter heart
Which loved it. When the yellow sheaves were laid,
And Matthew Morton gathered in the year.
The Farmer and his dame thought kindly thoughts
Of William. When the reapers took their hire,
Broad Matthew Morton kissed the babe and made
A goodly offer to the moody man