He smiled quietly behind the scenery of his curious
great face, but he answered all: where he lived, how he travelled,
what friends he had, where he spent Christmas, what barns and ditches
and haystacks felt like, anything and everything, even where he meant
to be buried when he died. "'ere, where I've lived so 'appily," and he
made a wide gesture with one tattered arm to include the earth and
sky. He had no secrets apparently; he was glad they should know all.
The children had never known such a delightful creature in their lives
before.
"And you eat anything?" inquired Tim, "anything you can, I mean?"
"Anything you can _get_, he means," corrected Judy softly.
He gave an unexpected answer. "I swallow sunsets, and I bite the moon;
I nibble stars. I never need a spoon."
He said it as naturally as a duchess describing her latest diet at a
smart dinner-party, with an air, too, as of some great personage
disguised on purpose so that he might enjoy the simple life.
"That rhymes," stated Maria.
"So does this," he replied; "I live on open hair and bits of bread;
the sunlight clothes me, and I lay me 'ead--"
The hissing of the kettle interrupted him.
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