“I take to the road with the Coltsfoot and the Butterburrs. I come out with the first Violet, and the Pussy-cat Willow. I wander, all through the year, up and down the length and breadth of England, with my box of herbs. I get my bread and cheese that way—while you draw for pleasure.”
“Partly.”
“It must be for pleasure, or you wouldn’t take so much pains. I suppose you think I’m a very disgraceful person, a bad citizen, a worse patriot. But I know the news of the world better than those who read newspapers. Although I trade on superstitions, I do no harm.”
“Do you sell your herbs?”
“Colchicum for gout—Autumn Crocus, you know it,” he replied. “Willow-bark quinine; Violet distilled, for coughs. Not a bad trade—besides, it keeps me free.”
I hazarded a question. “Tell me—you must observe these things—do swifts drink as they fly? It has often puzzled me.”
“I don’t know,” said he. “Ask Mother Nature. Some of these things are the province of professors. I’m not a learned man; just a herbalist.”
At that moment a thrush began to sing in a tree overhead. My friend cocked his head, just like an animal.
“There’s the wise thrush,” he quoted softly, “he sings his song twice over.”
“So you read Browning,” I said.