"It's very pretty," she said. "What is it a picture of—a meadow?"
"It's a picture of me."
"No. It's a picture of me," said the Unwiseman. "And it's one of the best I ever had taken."
"But I don't see you in it," said Mollie. "All I can see is a great field of grass and a big bowlder down in one corner."
"I know it," said the Unwiseman. "I'm lying on my back behind the bowlder asleep. If you could move the bowlder you could see me, but you can't. It's too heavy, and, besides, I think the paint is glued on."
"I hope you don't lie on the ground asleep very much," said Mollie, gravely, for she had taken a great liking to this strange old man who didn't know anything. "You might catch your death of cold."
"I didn't say I was lying on the ground," said the Unwiseman. "I said I was lying on my back. People ought not to catch cold lying on a nice warm back like mine."
"And do you live here all alone?" asked Mollie.