He found a little old man, with thick, bushy eyebrows and bright blue
eyes. His clothes were made all of leather, which creaked and rattled
when he moved. By his side was a partly open pack, in which
grandfather could see curious tools and sheets of shiny tin. By that
he knew that the man was the travelling tinker, who came once or twice
a year to mend leaky pans and pails, and of whom he had heard his
mother speak.
The old man was eating his luncheon--a slice or two of bread, a bit of
cold meat, and a cold potato; and because it seemed so poor a
luncheon, grandfather went back to the house and brought two big
apples from the cellar. The old man thanked him and ate the apples.
Then he got up, brushed the bread crumbs from his leather breeches,
and taking a little tin dipper from his pack, went down to the brook
for a drink of water. When he had had his fill, he came back to the
bench and sat down.
"Now, my boy," he said, "we will make a tree to grow here by the
brook. There ought to be one, for shade."
"Make a tree!" cried grandfather. "How can we make a tree? I thought
only God made trees."
"True," said the old man. "Only God makes trees, but sometimes we can
help Him."
With that, he took from the bench at his side a stick that he had cut
somewhere by the road, and had been using for a cane.
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