“See, lass, that’s sorrel. If you’ll break the road along with me I’ll show you where wild strawberries grow, lots of ’em!”
Her answer was to take the pasture bars at a run as easily as any country-bred urchin. The tinker swung himself after her, an odd wisp of a smile twisting the corners of his mouth, just such a smile as the fool might wear on the road to Arden. The two raced for the sorrel-tops—the tinker winning.
When Patsy caught up he was on his knees, his head bare, his eyes sparkling riotously, running his fingers exultantly through the green leaves that carpeted the ground. “See,” he chuckled, “the tinker knows somethin’ more ’n solder and pots.”
Patsy’s eyes danced. There they were—millions of the tiny red berries, as thick and luscious as if they had been planted in Elysian fields for Arcadian folk to gather. “The wee, bonnie things!” she laughed. “Now, how were ye afther knowing they were here?”
The tinker cocked his head wisely. “I know more ’n that; I know where to find yellow lady’s-slippers ’n’ the yewberries ’n’ hummin’-bird nests.”
She looked at him joyfully; he was turning out more and more to her liking. “Could ye be showing them to me, lad?” she asked.
The tinker eyed her bashfully. “Would you—care, then?”
“Sure, and I would;” and with that she was flat on the ground beside him, her fingers flying in search of strawberries.
So close they lay to the earth, so hidden by the waving sorrel and neighboring timothy, that had a whole county full of constables been abroad they could have passed within earshot and never seen them there.