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THE TAILOR'S SISTER'S TOMBSTONE 



I was on the hill over against the village where my 

 friend the tailor lived, and was preparing to descend 

 into the valley to inquire the whereabouts of his cottage, 

 when one of those sharp summer storms came on, the 

 sky being darkened as if a hand had drawn a curtain 

 across it, and the entire village lit by a vivid, unnatural 

 light, like limelight in its intensity. 



Turning about, as the first great drops fell, to look 

 for shelter, I spied a rough shed by the wayside, shut 

 in on three sides with gorse, wattle and mud, and roofed 

 over with heather thatch. Into this I scuttled and found 

 a comfortable seat on a sack placed on a pile of hurdles. 



It was evidently a place used by a shepherd for a 

 store-house of the implements of his craft. At the 

 back of a shed was one of those houses on wheels shep- 

 herds use in the lambing season ; besides this were 

 hurdles, sacks, several rusty tins, and a very rusty oil- 

 stove. All very primitive, and possessed of a nice 

 earthy smell. It gave me a sudden desire to be a 

 shepherd. 



Looking down into the valley I saw men running for 

 shelter, hastily pulling their coats over their shoulders 

 as they ran. In a field on the far side of the valley 

 they were carting Wheat, and I saw two men quickly 

 unhitch the cart horses, and lead them away to some 

 place hidden from me by trees. 



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