that the world revolves, and decided to stand still and let it come
round to him. Certainly a considerable number of its inhabitants
found their way to the "Flowing Source" sooner or later. Marketers
crossed the ferry and paused for a morning drink. In the cool of the
day quiet citizens rambled up from Ponteglos with rod and line, or
brought their families by boat on the high evening tide to eat cream
and junket, and sit afterwards on the benches by the inn-door,
watching the fish rise and listening to the song of the young people
some way up stream. Painters came, too, and sketched the old inn,
and sometimes stayed for a week, having tasted the salmon.
Pigeon-breeders dropped in and smoked long pipes in the kitchen with
Master Simon, and slowly matured bets and matches. And once or twice
in the summer months a company of pilgrims would arrive--queer
literary men in velveteen coats, who examined all the rooms and
furniture as though they meant to make a bid for the inn complete;
who talked with outlandish tongues and ordered expensive dinners, and
usually paid for them next morning, rather to Master Simon's
surprise. It appeared that there had been once, in the time of
Master Simon's grandfather, a certain pot-boy at the "Flowing Source"
who ran off into the world and became a great poet; and these
pilgrimages were made in his honour. Master Simon found this story
somehow very creditable to himself, and came in time to take
almost as much pride in it as in his pigeons and broiled salmon.
Regularly after dinner on these occasions he would exhibit an old
pewter pint-pot to the pilgrims, and draw their attention to the
following verse, scratched upon it--as he asserted--by the poet's own
hand:

Who buys beef buys bones,
Who buys land buys stones,