what's o'clock
167
THE GREEN PARRAKEET
"Three doors up from the end of the street
Hung a golden cage with a green parrakeet."
His feet shambled in the dust of the road, and the little barberry bushes hung out red tongues and leered at him.
He shuffled on, down the road, bent as though it might be a load he was carrying, while tiers and tiers of poplars, birches, hemlocks, pines, peered to see who it might be who stumbled and flung the dust about,
And the grey grape-vines, in and out between the bushes, ran beside him and looked in his face.
But his pace never changed a whit for all their staring.
He shuffled on at his long way-faring.
Hung a golden cage with a green parrakeet."
His feet shambled in the dust of the road, and the little barberry bushes hung out red tongues and leered at him.
He shuffled on, down the road, bent as though it might be a load he was carrying, while tiers and tiers of poplars, birches, hemlocks, pines, peered to see who it might be who stumbled and flung the dust about,
And the grey grape-vines, in and out between the bushes, ran beside him and looked in his face.
But his pace never changed a whit for all their staring.
He shuffled on at his long way-faring.
