Wednesday, November 26, 2008

A Little Becoming Fiction

An odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. Spinning by the fire with a row of apples roasting. Dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homeward.

He loved his daughter better even than his pipe. The funds of rustic waggery. Clattering up to the school room door.

He rode with short stirrups. "The small birds were taking their farewell banquets." Dainty flapjacks, well buttered.

A tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Not a fibre about him was idle. Enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction.

Among the graves in the churchyard. For some time rattling along the hollow roads. So lonely and dismal.

Fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy. Jogging along on the blind side. Just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed church.

A hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin. A melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes.

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