the large one at a discreet distance from him. When he had tossed
off his portion the shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger's
occupation.

The latter did not immediately reply, and the man in the
chimney-corner, with sudden demonstrativeness, said, "Anybody may
know my trade --I'm a wheelwright."

"A very good trade for these parts," said the shepherd.

"And anybody may know mine-if they've the sense to find it out,"
said the stranger in cinder gray.

"You may generally tell what a man is by his claws," observed the
hedge-carpenter, looking at his hands. "My fingers be as full of
thorns as an old pincushion is of pins."

The hands of the man in the chimney-corner instinctively sought
the shade, and he gazed into the fire as he resumed his pipe. The
man at the table took up the hedge-carpenter's remark, and added
smartly, "True; but the oddity of my trade is that, instead of
setting a mark upon me, it sets a mark upon my customers."

No observation being offered by anybody in elucidation of this
enigma, the shepherd's wife once more called for a song. The same
obstacles presented themselves as at the former time: one had
no voice, another had forgotten the first verse. The stranger at
the table, whose soul had now risen to a good working temperature,
relieved the difficulty by exclaiming that, to start the company,
he would sing himself. Thrusting one thumb into the armhole of