 | An idyl of work |  |
The coach stopped. From a roadside cottage-porch,
Wreathed with convolvulus, out flew a form
Familiar. “Welcome!” Minta Summerfield
Called, with a clap of hands. “Come in! come in!
You are not used to rough-and-tumble roads.
Poor wayfarers! I hope your bones are sound!”
Wreathed with convolvulus, out flew a form
Familiar. “Welcome!” Minta Summerfield
Called, with a clap of hands. “Come in! come in!
You are not used to rough-and-tumble roads.
Poor wayfarers! I hope your bones are sound!”
| An idyl of work | |