Adventures in Contentment by David Grayson
page 33 of 169 (19%)
page 33 of 169 (19%)
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"You're all straight, are you?" he asked tapping his forehead; "didn't anybody ever try to take you up?" "The covers are yours," I continued as though I had not heard him, "the insides are mine and have been for a long time: that is why I proposed buying the covers separately." I opened his book again. I thought I would see what had been chosen for its pages. And I found there many fine and great things. "Let me read you this," I said to Mr. Dixon; "it has been mine for a long time. I will not sell it to you. I will give it to you outright. The best things are always given." Having some gift in imitating the Scotch dialect, I read: "November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; The shortening winter day is near a close; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose: The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, This night his weekly moil is at an end, Collects his spades, his mattocks and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend." So I read "The Cotter's Saturday Night." I love the poem very much myself, sometimes reading it aloud, not so much for the tenderness of its message, though I prize that, too, as for the wonder of its music: |
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