down the old lady's face as she shook her head with a melancholy

smile.

'You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr Pickwick,'

resumed the host, after a short pause, 'for I love it dearly, and know

no other - the old houses and fields seem like living friends to me; and

so does our little church with the ivy, about which, by the bye, our

excellent friend there made a song when he first came amongst us. Mr

Snodgrass, have you anything in your glass?'

'Plenty, thank you,' replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had

been greatly excited by the last observation of his entertainer. 'I beg

your pardon, but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.'

'You must ask our friend opposite about that,' said the host

knowingly, indicating the clergyman by a nod of his head.

May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?' said Mr

Snodgrass.

'Why, really,' replied the clergyman, 'it's a very slight affair; and the

only excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young

man at the time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it, if you wish.'

A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply; and the old gentleman

proceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife,

the lines in question. 'I call them,' said he,

THE IVY GREEN

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of

right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty

whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry

meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy

green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old

heart has he. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend

the huge Oak Tree! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his

leaves he gently waves, As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The

rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has

been, A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, And nations have

scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, From its hale

and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days, Shall fatten

upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise, Is the Ivy's

The Pickwick Papers