If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining’s wet and warm—­don’t you ask no more!

If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said. 
If they call you ‘pretty maid,’ and chuck you ’neath the chin,
Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house—­whistles after dark—­
You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark. 
Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie—­
They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, ’likely there’s a chance,
You’ll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—­
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good! 
     Five-and-twenty ponies,
     Trotting through the dark—­
     Brandy for the Parson,
     ’Baccy for the Clerk. 
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—­
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

THE BEE BOY’S SONG

Bees!  Bees!  Hark to your bees! 
’Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!’

A Maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they’ll fly away. 
Fly away—­die away—­
Dwindle down and leave you! 
But if you don’t deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.

Marriage, birth or buryin’,
News across the seas,
All you’re sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees. 
Tell ’em coming in an’ out,
Where the Fanners fan,
’Cause the Bees are justabout
As curious as a man!

Don’t you wait where trees are,
When the lightnings play;
Nor don’t you hate where Bees are,
Or else they’ll pine away. 
Pine away—­dwine away—­
Anything to leave you! 
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees’ll never grieve you!

Just at dusk, a soft September rain began to fall on the hop-pickers.  The mothers wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins were put away, and tally-books made up.  The young couples strolled home, two to each umbrella, and the single men walked behind them laughing.  Dan and Una, who had been picking after their lessons, marched off to roast potatoes at the oast-house, where old Hobden, with Blue-eyed Bess, his lurcher dog, lived all the month through, drying the hops.