Children of the Mist by Eden Phillpotts
page 78 of 642 (12%)
page 78 of 642 (12%)
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penniless, backboneless, hand-to-mouth wretch, living on the work of
laborious insects." "If it ban't your awn fault, then whose be it, Clem?" "The fault of Chance--to pack my build of brains into the skull of a pauper. This poor, unfinished abortion of a head-piece of mine only dreams dreams that it cannot even set on paper for others to see." "You've given up trying whether it can or not, seemin'ly. I never hear tell of no verses now." "What 's the good? But only last night, so it happens, I had a sort of a wild feeling to get something out of myself, and I scribbled for hours and hours and found a little morsel of a rhyme." "Will 'e read it to me?" He showed reluctance, but presently dragged a scrap of paper out of his, pocket. Not a small source of trouble was his sweetheart's criticism of his verses. "It was the common sight of a pair of lovers walking tongue-tied, you know. I call it 'A Devon Courting.'" He read the trifle slowly, with that grand, rolling sea-beat of an accent that Elizabeth once loved to hear on the lips of Raleigh and Drake. "Birds gived awver singin', |
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