A great purple foxglove could do much now--just at this phase of his story, to make him forget--not the human face divine, but the loss of it.
A lark aloft in the blue, from whose heart, as from a fountain whose roots were lost in the air, its natural source, issued, not a stream, but an ever spreading lake of song, was now more to him than the memory of any human voice he had ever heard, except his father's and Sambo's.

But he was not yet quite out and away from the dwellings of his kind.
I may as well now make the attempt to give some idea of Gibbie's appearance, as he showed after so long wandering.

Of dress he had hardly enough left to carry the name.

Shoes, of course, he had none.

Of the shape of trousers there remained nothing, except the division before and behind in the short petticoat to which they were reduced; and those rudimentary divisions were lost in the multitude of rents of equal apparent significance.