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The
tear
which
starts
unbidden
to
the
eye
when
the
recollection
of
old
times
and
the
happiness
of
many
years
ago
is
suddenly
recalled
,
stole
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
!
