hand he carried a long staff; the other held a small book close under his nose, and his lean shoulders bent over as he read in it. It was clear, from the man's undecided gait, that all his eyes were for this book. Only he would look up when one of his birds strayed too far on the turf that lined the highway, and would guide it back to the stones again with his staff. As for the geese, they were utterly draggle-tailed and stained with travel, and waddled, every one, with so woe-begone a limp that I had to laugh as I passed.
The man glanced up, set his forefinger between the pages of his book, and turned on me a long sallow face and a pair of the most beautiful brown eyes in the world.
"Little boy," he said, in a quick foreign way—"rosy little boy. You laugh at my geese, eh?"
No doubt I stared at him like a ninny, for he went on—
"Little wide-mouthed Cupidon, how you gaze! Also, by the way, how you smell!"
"It's my corduroys," said I.
