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.