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I.

So in the glen three days had well-nigh passed;
The pelting rain seemed holding up at last.
Ranolf and Amo in their bark-built tent
Were busy; she, in sylvan arts adept,
With scraps of fern drybrown from where they slept,
And moss from underneath thick boughs, in spite
Of damp, preparing her quick fire to light:
But with grave brow half-puzzled how to glean
A savoury meal from viands well-nigh spent:
And he, in prospect of the brightening weather,
Intent, but leisurely, with loitering mien,
On ferreting with purple-glossed green feather—
The wild-duck's, moistened with its searching oil—
Into the fastenings of his rifle's lock,
The shining intricacies rust would spoil;
Still pausing in his task, with banter fond
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Her over-anxious care for him to mock,
To which, no whit disturbed, she would respond
Her fixed conviction what to him was due:
Or, if a longer silence intervened
Wondering what strange wild tameness towards him drew
The large grey-coated robin—kinsman true
Of England's delicate highbred bird of home,—
So fine-limbed, full of spirit!—how 'twould come
After a little startled flight or two
And perch upon the very gun he cleaned.—
'Twas then, Te Manu—who, sent off to scout,
A cloak of perfect thatch about him thrown,
Had fetched a wary compass wide about
To a far village off their route—prepared
With preconcerted tale—was seen alone
Returning from the journey safely dared,
O'er the dim plain—a shadow: till as near
He drew, the triumph on his face was clear.
Laden he came—though nought for loads he cared
When self-imposed by fancy for good cheer;
Cray-fish; plump pigeons in their fat preserved,
Neat-packed in pottles of dark wood, adorned
With carvings arabesque so quaintly curved;
Store of that tiny fish like whitebait, dried
In sunshine on hot stones; with scraps beside
Of native dainties nowise to be scorned.
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