Pebbles on the shore [by] Alpha of the plough by A. G. (Alfred George) Gardiner
page 148 of 190 (77%)
page 148 of 190 (77%)
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Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking? And yet I cannot quite get rid of my fancy that the golf ball does enjoy the game. ON A PRISONER OF WAR There are still a few apples on the topmost branches of the trees in the orchard. They are there because David, the labourer, who used to come and lend us a hand in his odd hours--chiefly when the moon was up--is no longer available. You may remember how David opened his heart to me about enlisting when he stood on the ladder picking the pears last year. He did not like to go and he did not like to stay. All the other chaps had gone, and he didn't feel comfortable like in being left behind, but there was his mother and his wife and his Aunt Jane, and not a man to do a hand's turn for 'em or to dig their gardens if he went. And there was the allotment--that 'ud run to weeds. And ... Well, the allotment has run to weeds. I passed it to-day and looked over the hedge and saw the chickweed and the thistles in undisputed possession. For David has gone. "It will take a long time to turn him into a soldier," we said when we saw him leave his thatched roof last spring to join up, and |
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