He Must Have Been Seventy, That Old Man
With A Young Wife And Four Happy Bright-Eyed Little Children!
We could understand it better when he finally settled down in
his corner in the kitchen and began to relate the events of
the day, addressing his poor little wife, now busy darning
or patching an old garment, while the children, clustered
at his knee, listened as to a fairy tale.
Certainly this
white-haired man had not grown old in mind; he was keenly
interested in all he saw and heard, and he had seen and heard
much in the little market town that day. Cattle and pigs and
sheep and shepherds and sheepdogs; farmers, shopkeepers,
dealers, publicans, tramps, and gentlefolks in carriages and
on horseback; shops, too, with beautiful new things in the
windows; millinery, agricultural implements, flowers and fruit
and vegetables; toys and books and sweeties of all colours.
And the people he had met on the road and at market, and what
they had said to him about the weather and their business and
the prospects of the year, how their wives and children were,
and the clever jokes they had made, and his own jokes, which
were the cleverest of all. If he had just returned from
Central Africa or from Thibet he could not have had more to
tell them nor told it with greater zest.
We went to our room, but until the small hours the wind of the
old traveller's talk could still be heard at intervals from
the kitchen, mingled with occasional shrill explosions of
laughter from the listening children.
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