"It's the way to keep on the trail. Smell--then
follow."
Something flashed through the clearing mind of the older man, though
where it came from he had less idea than the dandelions: a mood of
forgotten beauty rushed upon him--
"O, follow, follow!
Through the caverns hollow,
As the song floats thou pursue,
Where the wild bee never flew--"
and he ran dancing forward after the great Tramp, singing the words as
though they were his own.
Yet the flowers spread so thickly that the trail soon lost itself; it
seemed like a paper-chase where the hare had scattered coloured petals
instead of torn white copy-books. Each searcher followed the sign of
his or her own favourite flower; like a Jack-in-the-Box each one
bobbed up and down, smelling, panting, darting hither and thither as
in the mazes of some gnat--or animal-dance, till knees and hands were
stained with sweet brown earth, and lips and noses gleamed with the
dust of orange-tinted pollen.
"Anyhow, I'd rather look than find," cried Tim, turning a somersault
over a sandy rabbit-mound.
The swallows flashed towards Judy, a twittering song sprinkling itself
like liquid silver behind them as they swooped away again.
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