"Fear no more the frown of the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to clothe and eat, To thee the reed is as the oak."

"There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth little Love Winslow, clappingher hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes--fifteen--and then crackle! crackle! crackle! and down it comes!"

"Peace, darling," exclaimed Jane Winslow; "hear what very aged Margery is singingfar below: