""Goblins," Robert answers.


This revelation leaves me dumb with astonishment and awe... But Robert
suddenly cries out:--


"There is a Harper! -- he is coming to the house!"


And down the hill we run to hear the harper... But what a harper! Not like
the hoary minstrels of the picture-books. A swarthy, sturdy, unkempt
vagabond, with black bold eyes under scowling black brows. More like a
bricklayer than a bard,-- and his garments are corduroy!


"Wonder if he is going to sing in Welsh?" murmurs Robert.


I feel too much disappointed to make any remarks. The harper poses his
harp -- a huge instrument -- upon our doorstep, sets all the strong ringing
with a sweep of his grimy fingers, clears his throat with a sort of angry
growl, and begins,--

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day...



The accent, the attitude, the voice, all fill me with repulsion