'Drink some more,' said the blind man; 'don't be afraid of it. You don't
taste anything like that, often, eh?'
'Often!' cried Barnaby. 'Never!'
'Too poor?' returned the blind man with a sigh. 'Ay. That's bad. Your
mother, poor soul, would be happier if she was richer, Barnaby.'
'Why, so I tell her--the very thing I told her just before you came
to-night, when all that gold was in the sky,' said Barnaby, drawing his
chair nearer to him, and looking eagerly in his face. 'Tell me. Is there
any way of being rich, that I could find out?'
'Any way! A hundred ways.'
'Ay, ay?' he returned. 'Do you say so? What are they?--Nay, mother, it's
for your sake I ask; not mine;--for yours, indeed. What are they?'
The blind man turned his face, on which there was a smile of triumph, to
where the widow stood in great distress; and answered,
'Why, they are not to be found out by stay-at-homes, my good friend.'
'By stay-at-homes!' cried Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve. 'But I am not
one. Now, there you mistake. I am often out before the sun, and travel
home when he has gone to rest. I am away in the woods before the day
has reached the shady places, and am often there when the bright moon
is peeping through the boughs, and looking down upon the other moon that
lives in the water.
Pages:
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611