THE MAKING OF A PLAYER 167

is enough. Now be off to thy nest, sir; and do not forget
to wash thy throat with good cold water every day.”

ALL this time the busy sand kept running in the glass.
July was gone, and August at its heels. The hot breath
of the summer had cooled, and the sun no longer burned
the face when it came in through the windows. Nick often
shut his eyes and let the warm light fall upon his closed
lids. It made a ruddy glow like the wild red poppies that
grow in the pale green rye. In fancy he could almost
smell the queer, rancid odor of the crimson bloom crushed
beneath the feet of the farmers’ boys who eut the butter-
yellow mustard from among the bearded grain.

“ Heigh-ho and alackaday !” thought Nick. “Itis better
in the country than in town!” For there was no smell in
all the town like the clean, sweet smell of the open fields
just after a summer rain, no colors like the bright heart’s-
ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle over the cot-
tage door, and no song ever to be heard among the sooty
chimney-pots like the song of the throstle piping to the
daisies on the hill.

But he had little time to dream such dreams, for every
day from four to six o’clock the children’s company played
and sang in public, at their own school-hall, or in the
courtyard of the Mitre Inn on Bread street near St. Paul’s.

They were the pets of London town, and their playing-
place was thronged day after day. For the bright young
faces and sweet, unbroken voices of the richly costumed
lads made a spot in sordid London life like a pot of posies