"For the poor blind man.... God reward you."

And this through the whole street and farther, to the farmhouses, from
the one to the other, all day long, till evening fell again and that same
thick mist came to wrap everything in its grey, dark breath.

And again they wandered, through a drove, to a homestead and into the
hay.

"The dog has pupped," said the little old woman; and she shook her man.

"Pupped?..."

And he turned in the nest which he had made for himself, pushed his head
deeper in the hay and drowsed on. He dreamt of dogs and of pups and of
organs and of ear-splitting yelps and howls.

The dog lay in a fine, round little nest of his own, rolled into a ball
and moaning. And he[1] looked so sadly and kindly into the little old
woman's eyes; and he licked, never stopped licking his puppies. They were
like three red-brown moles, each with a fat head; they wriggled their
thick little bodies together and sought about and squeaked.

[1] The West-Fleming talks of dogs of either sex invariably as "he."

When the tramps had swallowed their slice of rye-bread and their dish of
porridge, they went on, elsewhither. The little fellow tugged, the little
old woman pushed and the dogs hung swinging between the wheels, in a
fig-basket. So they went begging, from hamlet to hamlet, the wide world