“A kind of a little bay like.” He was about to say a cul-de-sac, but stayed his tongue in time.
“And what is that yellow stuff all along the shore? It looks like sulphur.”
“It’s the pollen of the alders.”
“Pollen!” said Rose.
“Yes; that’s what the gentlemen calls it. Drops off them bushes, ma’am. Pullen or pollen—I don’t rightly mind.”
“Where is our pool, Polycarp?”
“’Most to it now.”
“Oh, there are the burnt lands,” said Rose. “What a dreadfully sad-looking place!” This was a mere personal reflection, unaddressed; but the bowman was now in the spirit of his part, and made a shy cast for a rise of interest in his human freight.
“It’s right mournsome-like.”
The fish rose. “What a beautiful word! Mournsome! Fearsome is another good word up here.”