A small, meek, well-dressed man
who walked beside the wagon seemed to be the proprietor of its
occupant, and to be somewhat oppressed by his good fortune. There was
no room for him in the wagon. It occurred to me that this might be an
avatar of the old woman of Banbury Cross.
The crowd thinned away like rain that from a heavy shower falls only in
scattered drops, and I was about turning from the window when my eyes
fell upon a beautiful bit of color across the way, standing out, as so
much Italian color does, against the background of a gray stone wall.
It was an odd, slim cone, something over five feet high, made of grass
and clover sprinkled through with burning poppies. I was just thinking
that this verdure must be fastened to a pole set into the ground when
it began to move. The fresh, long grass waved, the poppies glowed like
live coals when blown upon, two slim brown feet and ankles appeared
under the green fringe, and the dimpled elbow of a slim brown arm
peeped out above. Nothing else human was visible as this figure walked
away up the street toward the fair. Poor Ruth! She had neither cows,
pigs nor chickens, but she came with such riches as she could glean at
the roadside from bountiful Nature, clothed and covered from the top of
her invisible head down to her well-turned ankles in a garment as fair
as fancy could weave.
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