"Raggedy Man! Raggedy Man!" the children cried as they saw Jager Whitlowe striding up the winding path to Bowerton village. He stopped to wave and grin, tipping his dusty wide-brimmed hat, then continued pushing his cart up the rutted track. As he passed by, the children fell into step behind him. Clumsy and eager as puppies, they followed him into the town square where he customarily set up his trade.
Jager was a tall man, gaunt and straw-colored as a scarecrow, and just as ragged. He winked and grinned at the children as they clustered around him, snatching at the pack he carried and the packages he unwrapped, each one trying to help the old peddler as he set up his display. Jager enjoyed their youthful fussing and teasing after the solitude of his long journey, but he said nothing, deliberately feeding their anticipation with his silence.
"What have you brought this time?" demanded a chubby, raven-haired lad named Colyn.
"Show us your wares, Raggedy Man!" chorused a pair of girls alike enough to be twins.
It was always the same, no matter where he went. First the children came. They loved him best and understood him, a little. Then the good-wives would appear one by one to examine the treasures he displayed. They were diffident and disdainful even though they needed what he brought. Finally, near the end of the day, the men folk would come to test the tools and cutlery he made.
They haggled over every penny spent, watching Jager with hard, wary eyes. Though the good people of Bowerton trusted him with their children, they still feared he might cheat them. He was a tinker, after all, and an outsider. Jager encouraged that attitude, deliberately keeping himself apart even when overtures were made.
He finished arranging his goods and hunkered down on the stool he had set out beside the cart. There he sat, looking up the square as though patiently watching for a customer to appear, but the children weren't fooled. They knew he was only waiting for their invitation to take out the penny whistle he kept tucked in his tunic pocket. After a moment of watching, they gathered into a circle, glancing at Jager as they spoke.
When their conference was ended, the oldest--a girl named Delia--was pushed forward. She was slender and long of limb with black hair and stormy blue eyes. Smiling prettily at Jager, she stepped closer as the other children seated themselves on the ground in a expectant semi-circle around him.
"Please," Delia said. "Whistle us a tune, Raggedy Man."
"So, you wish me to take time out of my busy day to play you a song, do you?" The children all laughed at his stern expression. "Have you no chores? Wickedness comes of sloth!"
"Work may nurture the body, but music nurtures the soul," Delia replied.
"Give me back my own words, will you? That was clever, girl. Very well, I'm caught," he laughed. "What do you want to hear?"
Face flushed with pleasure at having bested him at the game, she tilted her head thoughtfully as she considered. She had grown much since his visit last year, Jager noted. He had been right to return just now. Soon she will be too old for games. That thought saddened the old man. With her quickness of mind and straightforward manner, the girl reminded him very much of her great-grandmother, his own dear half-sister Mari.
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