LIVING BACKWARDS 



The next day I stumbled in my stupid way 

 backwards into the new life. I took a tin pail 

 and called to Charlie. &quot; We must find that 

 spring,&quot; I said, and we set out like two tramps 

 through the jungle, starting a good many garru 

 lous chipmunks and seeing the occasional flash 

 of a rabbit. We reached a wooded crest toil 

 somely, and I heard the far-away toot of a loco 

 motive whistle. The white clouds were sailing 

 over the hazy hills in the east. Everything was 

 slumberous and warm and restful. Somewhere 

 in that direction there was social life. We would 

 walk over there and discover it. So we stowed 

 our pail away in a clump of bushes and set out 

 on a long tramp of exploration down winding 

 dusty roads and over ancient stone fences, new 

 vistas beguiling us on, and the yellow dog keep 

 ing ahead with a beckoning wag. Visions of a 

 cool hamlet with the railroad running through it 

 like an artery from a distant heart ; a quaint 

 little station with jolly old telegraph poles, and 

 some nice old hostelry where we could get a 

 homely dinner and hire a horse to bring us back 

 like two companionable German students. 



But the roads were elusive. They wound 

 round with singular want of purpose, and wan 

 dered down to deserted mills or turned in at 

 antique graveyards, and sometimes lost them 

 selves in grass-grown clearings where I suspected 

 there had once been camp-meetings. So, finally, 

 when the sun was getting vertically hot and the 

 dust was working its way into our marrow, we 



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