when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to

swing, not to sing.

His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses

drifted away down the canal.

It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the

square, the wind

was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed,

with a dogcart

beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled

out a gay tune:

Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream

for your coffee

to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,

and the mans sabots beat an accompaniment: Plop! trop!

milk for your tea.

Plop! trop! drink it to-night. It was very pleasant

out there,

but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy

gulped at a tear.

It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so

still.

Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes

away a moment

it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the

corner,

there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her

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