He was a brown grass-cutter, who grinned, and fondled a smoky cloth that buzzed--some tribe of wild bees, captured far afield.

"Ho, Lame Chicken! Do not bump me.

They will sting." He came through safely; for at the same moment the musical "Cling-clank" of a sweetmeat-seller's bell turned the game into a race.

The way was clear, also, for a tiny, aged collector of paper, flying the gay flag of an "Exalted Literary Society," and plodding, between two great baskets, on his pious rounds.

"Revere and spare," he piped, at intervals,-- "revere and spare the Written Word!" All the bright picture lingered with the two alien wayfarers, long after they had passed and the sun had withdrawn from their path.