the tavern first, but the host pushed him out of the door, throwing a
pewter porringer after him, which hit the poor little dog and made it
yelp. Then he spoke pitifully to the people he met, and knocked at the
cottage doors; but every one drove him away. He met the oldest woman,
but she gathered her skirts closely around her and hobbled by, her
pointed nose up in the air, and her cap-strings flying straight out
behind.

"I prithee, granny," he called after her, "try me with the buttercup
again, and see if I be not a Lindsay."

"Thou a Lindsay," quoth the oldest woman contemptuously; but she was
very curious, so she turned around and held a buttercup underneath the
boy's dirty chin.

"Bah," said the oldest woman, "a Lindsay indeed! Butter hath no charm
for thee, and the Lindsays, all loved it. I know, for I was nurse in
the family a hundred year ago."

Then she hobbled away faster than ever, and the poor boy kept on. Then
he met the schoolmaster, who had his new poem in a great roll in his
hand. "What little vagabond is this?" muttered he, gazing at him with
disgust. "He hath driven a fine metaphor out of my head."

When the boy reached the cottage where Margary and her mother lived,
the dame was sitting in the door spinning, and the little girl was
picking roses from a bush under the window, to fill a tall china mug
which they kept on a shelf.

When Margary heard the gate click, and turning, saw the boy, she