‘I reckon she’s about shifted it, too, by now,’ Jesse chuckled.  ’Hark!  That ain’t any slip off the bank which she’s got hold of.’

The Brook had changed her note again.  It sounded as though she were mumbling something soft.

     THE LAND

     When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
     In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
     He called to him Hobdenius—­a Briton of the Clay,
     Saying:  ‘What about that River-piece for layin’ in to hay?’

     And the aged Hobden answered:  ’I remember as a lad
     My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad. 
     An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean. 
     Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.’

     So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style. 
     Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
     And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
     We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

     Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
     And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too. 
     Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
     And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

     Well could Ogier work his war-boat—­well could Ogier wield
          his brand—­
     Much he knew of foaming waters—­not so much of farming land. 
     So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood. 
     Saying:  ‘What about that River-bit, she doesn’t look no good?’

     And that aged Hobden answered:  ’’Tain’t for me to interfere,
     But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year. 
     Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time
          on time,
     If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!’

     Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk,
     And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk. 
     And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in’t;
     Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

     Ogier died.  His sons grew English.  Anglo-Saxon was their name,
     Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
     For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
     And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

     But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy Autumn night
     And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right. 
     So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds: 
     ‘Hob, what about that River-bit—­the Brook’s got up no bounds?’

     And that aged Hobden answered:  ’’Tain’t my business to advise,
     But ye might ha’ known ’twould happen from the way the valley lies. 
     When ye can’t hold back the water you must try and save the sile. 
     Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d spile!’