tration: THE GLASSY HILL I CLOMB FOR THEE]

Next day she knew not what to do for grief. Then she broke the pear, and
found it filled with jewellery far richer than the contents of the
apple. With these jewels she bargained for permission to be a second
night in the young knight's chamber; but the old wife gave him another
sleeping drink, and again he slept till morning. All night she kept
sighing and singing as before:

"Seven long years I served for thee,
The glassy hill I clomb for thee,
Thy bloody clothes I wrang for thee;
And wilt thou not waken and turn to me?"

Still he slept, and she nearly lost hope altogether, But that day, when
he was out hunting, somebody asked him what noise and moaning was that
they heard all last night in his bedchamber. He said: "I have heard no
noise." But they assured him there was; and he resolved to keep waking
that night to try what he could hear. That being the third night and the
damsel being between hope and despair, she broke her plum, and it held
far the richest jewellery of the three. She bargained as before; and the
old wife, as before, took in the sleeping drink to the young knight's
chamber; but he told her he couldn't drink it that night without
sweetening. And when she went away for some honey to sweeten it with, he
poured out the drink, and so made the old wife think he had drunk it.
They all went to bed again, and the damsel began, as before, singing:

"Seven long years I served for thee,
The glassy hill I clomb for thee,
Thy bloody clothes I wrang for thee;
And wilt thou not waken and turn to me?"

He heard, and turned to her. And she told him all that had befallen
her, and he told her all that had happened to him. And he caused the old
washerwife and her daughter to be burnt. And they were married, and he
and she are living happy to this day for aught I know.

Yallery Brown

Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it wasn't in my
time, nor in your time, nor any one else's time, there was a young lad
of eighteen or so named Tom Tiver working on the Hall Farm. One Sunday
he was walking across the west field, 't was a beautiful July night,
warm and still and the air was full of little sounds as though the trees
and grass were chattering to themselves. And all at once there came a
bit ahead of him the pitifullest greetings ever he heard, sob, sobbing,
like a bairn spent with fear, and nigh heartbr