The Village Miser

The dogs made way for him and snarled and ran; And little children to their parents clung, Big-eyed with fear, when, gruff of look and tongue, Bent-backed he passed who had the village ban. In old drab coat and trousers, shoes of tan, And scarecrow hat, from some odd fashion sprung, A threadbare cloak about his shoulders flung, Grasping a crooked stick, limped by this man. Unspeaking and unspoken to, but oft Cursed after for a miser as he passed, Or barked at by the dogs who feared his cane. One day they found him dead; killed in his loft. Among his books, the hoard which he had massed. And then they laughed and swore he was insane.