Thou hadst a magic window broad and high
The light and glory of the morning shone
Thro' it, however dark the day had grown,
Or bleak the sky.
'I know Dave Brower's folks hev got brains an' decency, but when
thet boy is old enough t' take care uv himself, let him git out o' this
country. I tell ye he'll never make a farmer, an' if he marries an'
settles down here he'll git t' be a poet, mebbe, er some such
shif'less cuss, an' die in the poorhouse. Guess I better git back t'
my bilin' now. Good-night,' he added, rising and buttoning his old
coat as he walked away.
'Sing'lar man!' Uncle Eli exclaimed, thoughtfully, 'but anyone thet
picks him up fer a fool'll find him a counterfeit.'
Young as I was, the rugged, elemental power of the old poet had
somehow got to my heart and stirred my imagination. It all came
not fully to my understanding until later. Little by little it grew
upon me, and what an effect it had upon my thought and life ever
after I should not dare to estimate. And soon I sought out the 'poet
of the hills,' as they called him, and got to know and even to
respect him in spite of his unlovely aspect.
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