He was a ragged-looking being, yet his loose, untidy clothing became him so well that his appearance seemed almost neat--it was certainly natural: he was dressed in the day, the garden, the open air. Judy and Tim ran up fearlessly and began fingering the bits of stuff that clung to him from the fields and ditches. In his beard were some stray rose leaves and the feather of a little bird. The children had an air of sheltering against a tree trunk--woodland creatures--mice or squirrels chattering among the roots, or birds flown in to settle on a hedge. They were not one whit afraid. For nothing surprised them on this marvellous morning; everything that happened they--accepted. "He's shining underneath," Judy whispered in Tim's ear, cocking her head sideways so that she could catch her brother's eye and at the same time feel the great comfort of the new arrival against her cheek. "And awfully strong," was the admiring reply. "So soft, too," she declared--though whether of mind or body was not itemized--"like feathers." "And smells delicious," affirmed Tim, "like hay and rabbits." Each child picked out the quality the heart desired and approved; almost, it seemed, each felt him differently. Yet, although not one whit afraid, they whispered. Perhaps the wonder of it choked their utterance a little. The Tramp smiled at them. All four smiled. The way he had emerged from among the rose trees made them smile. It was as natural as though he had been there all the time, growing out of the earth, waving in the morning air and sunlight. There was something simple and very beautiful about him, perhaps, that made them smile like this. Then Uncle Felix, whom the first shock of surprise had apparently deprived of speech, found his voice and observed, "Good-morning to you, good-morning." The little familiar phrase said everything in a quite astonishing way. It was like a song. "_Good_-morning," replied the Tramp. "It is. I was wondering how long it would be before you saw me." "Ah!" said Judy and Tim in the same breath, "of course." "The fact is," stammered Uncle Felix, "you're so like the rest of the garden--so like a bit of the garden, I mean--that we didn't notice you at first. But we heard--" he broke off in the middle of the sentence--"That _was_ you singing, wasn't it?" he asked with a note of hushed admiration in his voice. The smile upon the great woodland face broadened perceptibly. It was as though the sun burst through a cloud. "That's hard to say," he replied, "when the whole place is singing. I'm just like everything else--alive. It's natural to sing, and natural to dance--when you're alive and looking--and know it." He spoke with a sound as though he had swallowed the entire morning, a forest rustling in his chest, singing water just behind the lips.