The Pigeon Pie

“She will always be kind in the main,” rejoined Rose.

“And did you ever hear what became of that precious sweetheart of hers?” asked Edmund.

“Hanged for sheep stealing,” replied Walter, “according to the report of Sylvester Enderby.  But hush, for enter—”

There entered Lucy, smiling and blushing, her dark hair decorated with the spray of oak, and her hands supporting a great pewter dish, in which stood a noble pie, of pale-brown, well-baked crust, garnished with many a pair of little claws, showing what were the contents.  She set it down in the middle of the table, just opposite to Walter.  The grace was said, the supper began, and great was the merriment when Walter, raising a whole pigeon on his fork, begged to know if Rose had appetite enough for it, and if she still possessed the spirit of a wolf.  “And,” said he, as they finished, “now Rose will never gainsay me more when I sing—

“For forty years our Royal throneHas been his father’s and his own,Nor is there anyone but heWith right can there a sharer be.   For who better may   The right sceptre sway,Than he whose right it is to reign?   Then look for no peace,   For the war will never ceaseTill the King enjoys his own again.“Then far upon the distant hillMy hope has cast her anchor still,Until I saw the peaceful doveBring home the branch I dearly love.   And there did I wait   Till the waters abateThat did surround my swimming brain;   For rejoice could never I   Till I heard the joyful cryThat the King enjoys his own again!”