IX
Out of the Market Place an alley ledTo Poultry Cross and old white Jocko spedBeneath its shelter and surveyed the stallsWhich here sell hobby horse, tops and balls,And tins for little cakes. One stall was fullOf button-cards and reels and hanks of wool,Another sold you sage and pansy roots,And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed bootsAnd clogs, and hanging on a string by twosA row of little russet leather shoes;Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,—“Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”
Out of the Market Place an alley ledTo Poultry Cross and old white Jocko spedBeneath its shelter and surveyed the stallsWhich here sell hobby horse, tops and balls,And tins for little cakes. One stall was fullOf button-cards and reels and hanks of wool,Another sold you sage and pansy roots,And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed bootsAnd clogs, and hanging on a string by twosA row of little russet leather shoes;Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,—“Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”
Out of the Market Place an alley ledTo Poultry Cross and old white Jocko spedBeneath its shelter and surveyed the stallsWhich here sell hobby horse, tops and balls,And tins for little cakes. One stall was fullOf button-cards and reels and hanks of wool,Another sold you sage and pansy roots,And this, red carpet-slippers, hob-nailed bootsAnd clogs, and hanging on a string by twosA row of little russet leather shoes;Tears filled his eyes, he turned to look again,—“Those shoes,” said he, “are just like Betsey-Jane.”