“A filbert hedge with wild briar overtwined,
      And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind
      Upon their summer thrones; there too should be
      The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
      That with a score of light green brethren shoots
      From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: 
      Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters
      Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters,
      The spreading bluebells; it may haply mourn
      That such fair clusters should be rudely torn
      From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly
      By infant hands, left on the path to die.”

Between the strange dialect and the unfamiliar terseness of poetry, Jan did not follow this very clearly, but he caught the allusion to bluebells, and the old man brought his hand back to his side with a gesture so expressive towards the bluebell fragments at his feet, that it hardly needed the tone of reproach he gave to the last few words—­“left on the path to die”—­to make Jan hang his head.

“’Twas the only blue I could find,” he said, looking ruefully at the fading flowers.

“And what for did ye want blue, then, my lad?”

“To make the sky with,” said Jan.

“The powers of the air be good to us!” said the stranger, setting his broad hat back from his face, as if to obtain a clearer view of the little pig-minder.  “Are ye a sky-maker as well as a swineherd?  And while I’m catechising ye, may I ask for what do ye bring a slate out pig-minding and sky-making?”

“I draws out the trees on it first,” said Jan, “and then I does them in leaves.  If you’ll come round,” he added, shyly, “you’ll see it.  But don’t tread on un, please, sir.”

The old man fumbled in his pocket, from which he drew a shagreen spectacle-case, as substantial looking as himself, and, planting the spectacles firmly on his heavy nose, he held out his hand to Jan.

“There,” said he, “take me where ye will.  To bonnie Elf-land, if that’s your road, where withered leaves are gold.”

Jan ran round willingly to take the hand of his new friend.  He felt a strange attraction towards him.  His speech was puzzling and had a tone of mockery, but his face was unmistakably kind.

“Now then, lad, which path do we go by?” said he.

“There’s only one,” said Jan, gazing up at the old man, as if by very staring with his black eyes he could come to understand him.  But in an instant he was spouting again, holding Jan before him with one hand, whilst he used the other as a sort of baton to his speech:  -

     “And know’st thou not yon broad, broad road
      That lies across the lily levin? 
      That is the path of sinfulness,
      Though some think it the way to heaven.”

“Go on, please!” Jan cried, as the old man paused.  His rugged speech seemed plainer in the lines it suited so well, and a touch of enthusiasm in his voice increased the charm.