18 MARCH 1955, Page 16

Blushing, she fled: no one was on her side.

She could not bear the whistle and the slap, The fustian prospect of a farmer's lap.

Her father moped. Her sisters swore. She cried.

Dreamed of the Prince, neglected all her tasks And now had run away, but not for long: The wood was frightful as a wig, as wrong As her own hearth. Soon she returned, through masks Of mist. Her heart jumped at the stir that took Her eye: the royal hounds sagged in the porch, Their tongues like shoehorns. Someone waved a torch.