“She scorns the Wordsworth of her brain,
Though she’s as wise as forty owls;
But when her muse once gets a start,
Look out! for, great Scott, Howitt Howells!”
“Who wrote it? Who wrote it?” queried the girls in chorus; and then each one tried to blush and pretended to look conscious, and Hester said suddenly:
“Oh, look at that queer man coming up the road!”
The queer man, who carried a large pack on his back, came nearer, turned in at the cottage gate, and paused at the foot of the veranda steps. He was evidently a foreigner, a great, gaunt creature with a swarthy skin, coarse black hair, and black, beady eyes. He wore a long mantle heavy with embroidery, and on his head was a gay-colored turban-like arrangement.
“He looks like a supplement to an art magazine,” whispered Millicent to Marjorie.
“He has something to sell,” returned Marjorie, and indeed he had.
Beautiful Oriental fabrics were quickly spread out before the eyes of the delighted girls. Scarfs, handkerchiefs, embroidered jackets, and spangled sashes were shaken out one after another by the long bony fingers of the East Indian. He had, too, a lot of fancy baskets and some hideous little idols.