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What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads,

already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his

day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was

worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the

birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over

him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the mender of roads

ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill,

knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.