face, wearing a greenish tweed jacket and shorts, and green stockings that showed his bare brown knees.
He crossed the field, climbed a sagging rail fence, and began to trot along a path that led beside a muddy, winding road. Soon the blacksmith shop appeared, noisy and friendly, between two majestic elms. An oriole was darting to and fro from elm to elm, and, when the clanging on the anvil ceased for a moment, its sweet liquid song was scattered down in a shower. Wakefield stopped in the doorway to rest.
"Good morning, John," he said to John Chalk, the smith, who was paring the hoof of a huge, hairy-legged farm horse.
"Good morning," answered Chalk, glancing up with a smile, for he and Wake were old friends. "It's a fine day."
"A fine day for those that have time to enjoy it. I've got beastly old lessons to do."
"I suppose you don't call what I'm doing work, eh?" returned Chalk.
"Oh, well, it's nice work. Interesting work. Not like history and comp."
"What's 'comp.'?"
"Composition. You write about things you're not interested in. Now, my last subject was 'A Spring Walk.'"
"Well, that ought to be easy. You've just had one."
"Oh, but that's different. When you sit down to write about it, it all seems stupid. You begin, 'I set out one fine spring morning,' and then you can't think of a single thing to write about."
"Why not write about me?"
Wakefield gave a jeering laugh. "Who'd want to read about you! This comp. stuff has got to be read, don't you see?"
