CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.
RICHARD WHITTINGTON, THE SCULLERY BOY WHO BECAME LORD MAYOR.
A poor boy, meanly clad, and carrying in his hand a small bundle, trudged sadly along the road which led over the moor of Finsbury to Highgate.

The first streak of dawn was scarcely visible in the eastern sky, and as he walked, the boy shivered in the chill morning air.

More than once he dashed from his eyes the rising tears, and clutched his little wallet and quickened his pace, as if determined to hold to some desperate resolve, despite of all drawings to the contrary.

As the road rose gradually towards Highgate, the sun broke out from behind the clouds on his right, and lit up fields and trees and hills with a brightness and richness which contrasted strangely with the gloom on the boy's face, and the poverty of his appearance.

The birds in the hedges began to sing, and the cattle to low and tinkle their bells; the whistle of the herdsmen came up from the valley, and all nature seemed to wake with a cry of gladness to greet the new day.
Even poor Dick Whittington could not wholly resist the cheering influence of that bright summer morning.