Then the coach,
as it rolled along, presented such a dazzling appearance, that several
persons who inadvertently looked at it had been blinded. It was the
schoolmaster's opinion, set forth in his poem, that this really was a
prince. One could scarcely doubt it, on reading the poem. It is a pity
it has not been preserved, but it was destroyed--how, will transpire
further on.
Well, two days after this dainty stranger with his coach-and-four
came to the village, a little wretched beggar-boy, leading by a dirty
string a forlorn muddy little dog, appeared on the street. He went to
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.
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