“He’s just like the little rabbits Jeremy sells,” said Ginger.
“If you could look under his trousers,” said Gypsy, “you’d find that instead of feet he has two spiral springs.”
“It’s quite easy to look under his trousers,” said Ginger, “and he prefers not to wear socks.”
“Another Simple Lifer,” said Gypsy. Most of their friends were.
“But he has got a pretty hat,” said Ginger. “I wish I’d got one like it.”
His hat was the chief reason why you’d have to notice the Groundsel Man in a crowd. It was a straw hat of all sorts of shapes and colours, with no top to the crown and whiskers round the brim. And it was weighed down by a glorious wreath of buttercups. The Groundsel Man’s basket was also half buttercups, as well as groundsel and chickweed, and in one hand he had a short thick thorn-stick, as black and shiny as an old clay pipe, and in the other he carried a great branch of white wild roses like a banner. As he stepped by he said,
“Good morning, sir and ma’am. A fine night it’s been and a finer day ’twill be.”
“Are you telling us that?” said Gypsy doubtfully.
“I am, sir. You’re clever little people,” said the Groundsel Man cheerily, “but it’s not the likes o’ me you can tell about the weather. My kind needs no weatherhouses.”
“Not even in London?” said Ginger, bringing the teapot.