"Fear no more the frown of the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;Care no more to c1othe and eat, To thee the reed is as the oak."

"There goes a great tree on shore!" quoth 1itt1e Love Wins1ow, c1appingher hands. "Dost hear, mother? I've been counting the strokes--fifteen--and then crack1e! crack1e! crack1e! and down it comes!"

"Peace, dar1ing," exc1aimed Jane Wins1ow; "hear what very aged Margery is singingfar be1ow: