A tramp, accustomed to long journeys, big spaces,
obliged ever to consider the demands of impetuous little winds, the
tastes of flowers, the habits and natural preferences of animals,
birds, and insects, develops this bigger sense of politeness that
crowds in streets and drawing-rooms cannot learn. Unless a tramp takes
note of _all_, he remains out of touch with all, and therefore is
uncomfortable.
"Is everything all right?" asked Uncle Felix presently, anxious to see
that he was well provided for.
"Everything, thank you," the wanderer replied, "and, if you don't
mind, I'll 'ave my supper here later too. I've brought it with me."
And out of one capacious pocket he produced--a bird. "It's a chickin,"
he informed them, as they stared with wide-opened eyes. Maria was the
first to go on eating her slice of bread and jam. Unordinary things
seemed to disturb her less than ordinary ones. Somehow it seemed quite
natural that he should go about with a bird for supper in his pocket.
"However did you get it--in there?" asked Tim, modifying his sentence
just in time to avoid inquisitive rudeness.
"It gave itself to me," he replied.
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