But when I sat up and looked about me the desire faded, and
rummaging in my bag I came across my tin whistle. Immediately I
began practising a tune called "Sweet Afton," which I had learned
when a boy; and, as I played, my mood changed swiftly, and I
began to smile at myself as a tragically serious person, and to
think of pat phrases with which to characterize the execrableness
of my attempts upon the tin whistle. I should have liked some one
near to joke with.
Long ago I made a motto about boys: Look for a boy anywhere.
Never be surprised when you shake a cherry tree if a boy drops
out of it; never be disturbed when you think yourself in complete
solitude if you discover a boy peering out at you from a fence
corner.
I had not been playing long before I saw two boys looking at me
from out of a thicket by the roadside; and a moment later two
others appeared.
Instantly I switched into "Marching Through Georgia," and began
to nod my head and tap my toe in the liveliest fashion. Presently
one boy climbed up on the fence, then another, then a third. I
continued to play. The fourth boy, a little chap, ventured to
climb up on the fence.
They were bright-faced, tow-headed lads, all in Sunday clothes.
"It's hard luck," said I, taking my whistle from my lips, "to
have to wear shoes and stockings on a warm Sunday like this.
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