Around the bend in the road there was nothing to be seen but a lonely
field where two goats were grazing. On one side of it was a stone wall,
on two others a tall hedge, but the side next her sloped down to the
road, unfenced.
Joyce, with her hands filled with the yellow wild flowers, stood looking
around her, singing the old rhyme, the song that she had taught the baby
to sing before he could talk plainly:
"Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn,
The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.
Little Blue Blue, oh, where are you?
Oh, where are you-u-u-u?"
The gay little voice that had been rising higher and higher, sweet as
any bird's, stopped suddenly in mid-air; for, as if in answer to her
call, there was a rustling just ahead of her, and a boy who had been
lying on his back, looking at the sky, slowly raised himself out of
the grass.
For an instant Joyce was startled; then seeing by his wooden shoes and
old blue cotton blouse that he was only a little peasant watching the
goats, she smiled at him with a pleasant good morning.
He did not answer, but came towards her with a dazed expression on his
face, as if he were groping his way through some strange dream. "It is
time to go in!" he exclaimed, as if repeating some lesson learned long
ago, and half forgotten.
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