THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
the boughs above us, nor break at all our rest. Search, search my masters through the fantastick alleys of your mind, and set some merry tale on foot; recall again the joyous days of old, and let the owls hoot as mournfully as they please." "I give my place unto mine host, the good Tankard Marshall," said Tom, "I will sing mumchance through my nose, lest any babbler break the story short." Then came the chant: Hear and speak not a word, for merriment is a-making and a strong concoction of choicer wit; and the blacksmith forgeth on his ringing anvil drolls.
