We want to hear one of the Little Old Man's
world-famous stories.
The trail across the island is wide and not too long. We get there in time
to join a crowd of children and parents who are walking around or sitting
on the ground in a half-circle, waiting.
In the clearing, leaning on a cane, is the Little Old Man. He waves us in
to join the others and points to an empty space nearby. We make our
way to where he points and take our places. Mother and Dad sit behind
us. I look at the Little Old Man and understand why he is called that.
He is a small man, and, stooping over his cane, he looks small indeed.
On his feet he wears leather sandals. His faded blue coveralls have
patches on the knees and seat. A wide-brimmed straw hat is tipped back
on his head.
He removes his hat to wipe his head with a red handkerchief. His long
white hair is tied in a ponytail, and his wrinkled face is tanned to nut
brown. Eyes twinkling, he smiles at the audience. I feel good just
watching him.
The people who came to hear his story shift about to get comfortable and
I do, too. The Little Old Man's voice is deep as he begins.
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