The dog lifted his head and looked into the man’s face, while his tail wagged a joyful greeting, and, as the man stooped to pat the animal and speak a few kind words, a beautiful smile broke over the delicate features of the youth. Throwing himself upon the ground, he cried, “Come here, Brave”; and taking the dog’s face between his hands, said in confidential tones, ignoring Mr. Howitt’s presence, “He’s a good man, ain’t he, brother?” The dog answered with wagging tail. “We sure like him, don’t we?” The dog gave a low bark. “Listen, Brave, listen.” He lifted his face to the tree tops, then turned his ear to the ground, while the dog, too, seemed to hearken. Again that strange smile illuminated his face; “Yes, yes, Brave, we sure like him. And the tree things like him, too, brother; and the flowers, the little flower things that know everything; they’re all a singin’ to Pete ’cause he’s come. Did you see the flower things in his eyes, and hear the tree things a talkin’ in his voice, Brave? And see, brother, the sheep like him too!” Pointing toward the stranger, he laughed aloud. The old ewe had come quite close to the man, and one of the lambs was nibbling at his trousers’ leg.
Mr. Howitt seated himself on the stile again, and the dog, released by the youth, came to lie down at his feet; while the boy seemed to forget his companions, and appeared to be listening to voices unheard by them, now and then nodding his head and moving his lips in answer.
The old man looked long and thoughtfully at the youth, his own face revealing a troubled mind. This then was Pete, Poor Pete. “Howard,” whispered the man; “the perfect image;” then again he said, half aloud, “Howard.”
The boy turned his face and smiled; “That ain’t his name, Mister; his name’s Pete. Pete seen you yesterday over on Dewey, and Pete he heard the big hills and the woods a singin’ when you talked. But Jed he didn’t hear. Jed he don’t hear nothin’ but himself; he can’t. But Pete he heard and all Pete’s people, too. And the gray mist things come out and danced along the mountain, ’cause they was so glad you come. And Pete went with you along the Old Trail. Course, though, you didn’t know. Do you like Pete’s people, Mister?” He waved his hands to include the forest, the mountains and the sky; and there was a note of anxiety in the sweet voice as he asked again: “Do you like Pete’s friends?”
“Yes, indeed, I like your friends,” replied Mr. Howitt, heartily; “and I would like to be your friend too, if you will let me. What is your other name?”
The boy shook his head; “Not me; not me;” he said; “do you like Pete?”
The man was puzzled. “Are you not Pete?” he asked.
The delicate face grew sad: “No, no, no,” he said in a low moaning tone; “I’m not Pete; Pete, he lives in here;” he touched himself on the breast. “I am—I am—” A look of hopeless bewilderment crept into his eyes; “I don’t know who I am; I’m jest nobody. Nobody can’t have no name, can he?” He stood with downcast head; then suddenly he raised his face and the shadows lifted, as he said, “But Pete he knows, Mister, ask Pete.”
A sudden thought came to Mr. Howitt. “Who is your father, my boy?”
Instantly the brightness vanished; again the words were a puzzled moan; “I ain’t got no father, Mister; I ain’t me; nobody can’t have no father, can he?”