He wrote to Mr.Baird once after, but had no answer--nor ever heard anything of them but that they had to part with everything, and retire into poverty.
It was a lovely spring morning when with his stick and his knapsack he set out, his heart as light as that of the sky-lark that seemed for a long way to accompany him.

It was one after another of them that took up the song of his heart and made it audible to his ears.
Better convoy in such mood no man could desire.

He walked twenty miles that day for a beginning, and slept in a little village, whose cocks that woke him in the morning seemed all to have throats of silver, and hearts of golden light.

He increased his distance walked every day, and felt as if he could go on so for years.
But before he reached his destination, what people call a misfortune befell him.

I do not myself believe there is any misfortune; what men call such is merely the shadow-side of a good.
He had one day passed through a lovely country, and in the evening found himself upon a dreary moorland.