Chip, of the Flying U by B. M. Bower
page 86 of 174 (49%)
page 86 of 174 (49%)
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some of the wisdom which nature teaches those who can read her language,
and he had read much, lying on his stomach under a summer sky, while the cattle grazed all around him and his horse cropped the sweet grasses within reach of his hand. He could repeat whole pages of Shakespeare, and of Scott, and Bobbie Burns--he'd like to try Dr. Cecil on some of them and see who came out ahead. Still, he was ignorant--and none realized it more keenly and bitterly than did Chip. He rested his chin in his hand and brooded over his comfortless past and cheerless future. He could just remember his mother--and he preferred not to remember his father, who was less kind to him than were strangers. That was his past. And the future--always to be a cow-puncher? There was his knack for drawing; if he could study and practice, perhaps even the Little Doctor would not dare call him ignorant then. Not that he cared for what she might say or might not say, but a fellow can't help hating to be reminded of something that he knows better than anyone else-- and that is not pleasant, however you may try to cover up the unsightliness of it. If Dr. Cecil Granthum--damn him!--had been kicked into the world and made to fight fate with tender, childish little fists but lately outgrown their baby dimples, as had been HIS lot, would he have amounted to anything, either? Maybe Dr. Cecil would have grown up just common and ignorant and fit for nothing better than to furnish amusement to girl doctors with dimples and big, gray eyes and a way of laughing. He'd like to show that little woman that she didn't know all about him yet. It wasn't too late--he was only twenty-four--he would study, and work, and climb to where she must look up, not down, to him--if she cared enough to look at all. It wasn't too late. He would quit gambling and save his money, and by next winter he'd have enough to |
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