It was in the afternoon that we drifted to a little grove of young pines, the one bit of pure green against the white and gray and black of that landscape. The sky was of sapphire, with a buzzard or two blotted against the blue.
Here with a circle of the trees surrounding us, the children sat down with me. They were not a talkative group, and I was overcome by a sense of the impossibility of meeting them on any common ground of conversation. But they seemed to expect something—they were like a flock of little hungry birds waiting to be fed—and what do you think I gave them? Guess. But I know you have it wrong.
I recited "Flos Mercatorum," my Whittington poem!
It was done on an impulse, to find if there was anything in them which would respond to such rhyme and rapture of words.
I gave it in my best manner, standing in the center of the circle. I did not expect applause. But I got more than applause. I am not going to try to describe the look that came into the eyes of the oldest boy—the nearest that I can come to it is to say that it was the look of a child waked from a deep sleep, and gazing wide-eyed upon a new world.
He came straight toward me. "Where—did you—git—them words?" he asked in a breathless sort of way.
"A man wrote them—a man named Noyes."
"Are they true?"
"Yes."
"Say them again."