He again spent the morning in his chair on the grass patch,
scribbling down verses; but in the afternoon he wandered about with the
two little boys Nick and Rick. It was Saturday, so they were early home
from school; quick, shy, dark little rascals of seven and six, soon
talkative, for Ashurst had a way with children. By four o'clock they had
shown him all their methods of destroying life, except the tickling of
trout; and with breeches tucked up, lay on their stomachs over the
trout stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also. They tickled
nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted
thing away. Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched
them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less
persevering, came up and stood beside him.
"The gipsy bogle zets on that stone," he said.
"What gipsy bogie?"
"Dunno; never zeen 'e. Megan zays 'e zets there; an' old Jim zeed 'e
once. 'E was zettin' there naight afore our pony kicked--in father's
'ead. 'E plays the viddle."
"What tune does he play?"
"Dunno."
"What's he like?"
"'E's black. Old Jim zays 'e's all over 'air. 'E's a praaper bogle.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249