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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"Drift from Two Shores"

He had a way of lingering beside the fences we had to
climb over, as if to continue more confidentially the history of
his misfortunes and troubles, which he was delivering to me during
our homeward walk, and I noticed that he could seldom resist the
invitation of a mossy boulder or a tussock of salt grass. "Ye see,
sur," he would say, suddenly sitting down, "it's along uv me
misfortunes beginnin' in Milwaukee that--" and it was not until I
was out of hearing that he would languidly gather his traps again
and saunter after me. When I reached my own garden gate he leaned
for a moment over it, with both of his powerful arms extended
downward, and said, "Ah, but it's a blessin' that Sunday comes to
give rest fur the wake and the weary, and them as walks sivinteen
miles to get it." Of course I took the hint. There was evidently
no work to be had from my friend, the Tramp, that day. Yet his
countenance brightened as he saw the limited extent of my domain,
and observed that the garden, so called, was only a flower-bed
about twenty-five by ten.


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