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"IT'S MY OWN INVENTION."
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"But the tune isn't his own invention," she said to herself: "it's 'I give thee all, I can no more.'" She stood and listened very attentively, but no tears came into her eyes.
"I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.
He said 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread—
A trifle, if you please.'
