There was another outburst of noisy cheering, followed by a new kind of clamour,

“A song!”

“A song!”

“Who’ll begin?”

“Where’s Steevy?”

“Little Steevy!”

“Steevy!  Wheer be ye got to?” roared one old fellow with very white hair and a very red face—­“ye’re not so small as ye can hide in yer mother’s thimble!”

A young giant of a man stood up in response to this adjuration, blushing and smiling bashfully.

“Here I be!”

“Sing away, lad, sing away!”

“Wet yer pipe, and whistle!”

“Tune up, my blackbird!”

Steevy, thus adjured, straightened himself to his full stature of over six feet and drank off a cupful of ale.  Then he began in a remarkably fine and mellow tenor: 

    “Would you choose a wife
    For a happy life,
      Leave the town and the country take;
    Where Susan and Doll,
    And Jenny and Moll,
    Follow Harry and John,
    While harvest goes on,
      And merrily, merrily rake!”

    “The lass give me here,
    As brown as my beer,
      That knows how to govern a farm;
    That can milk a cow,
    Or farrow a sow,
    Make butter and cheese,
    And gather green peas,
      And guard the poultry from harm.”

    “This, this is the girl,
    Worth rubies and pearl,
      The wife that a home will make! 
    We farmers need
    No quality breed,
    But a woman that’s won
    While harvest goes on,
      And we merrily, merrily rake!”

[Footnote:  Old Song 1740.]

A dozen or more stentorian voices joined in the refrain: 

  “A woman that’s won
   While harvest goes on,
    And we merrily, merrily rake.”

“Bravo!”

“Good for you, Steevy!”

“First-class!”

“Here’s to you, my lad!”

The shouting, laughter and applause continued for many minutes, then came more singing of songs from various rivals to the tuneful Steevy.  And presently all joined together in a boisterous chorus which ran thus: 

  “A glass is good and a lass is good,
    And a pipe is good in cold weather,
  The world is good and the people are good,
    And we’re all good fellows together!”

In the middle of this performance Farmer Jocelyn rose from his place and left the hall, Innocent accompanying him.  Once he looked back on the gay scene presented to him—­the disordered supper-table, the easy lounging attitudes of the well-fed men, the flare of the lights which cast a ruddy glow on old and young faces and sparkled over the burnished pewter,—­then with a strange yearning pain in his eyes he turned slowly away, leaning on the arm of the girl beside him, and went,—­leaving the merry-makers to themselves.

CHAPTER III