Sometimes I he

    village to my ohe

    catcing

    of it.

    .  I  heard

    so muc over t-fern the

    pigeons are all asleep upon ts -- no flutter from them.

    as t a farmers noon he woods

    just noo boiled salt beef and cider and

    Indian bread.   does not

    eat need not work.  I wonder hey have reaped.  ho would

    live the barking of Bose?

    And oo keep brighe devils door-knobs, and

    scour ubs t day!  Better not keep a house.  Say, some

    ree; and ties!  Only a

    apping.  Ooo hey

    are born too far into life for me.  I er from the spring,

    and a loaf of broling

    of t some ill-fed village o the

    instinct of t pig hese

    er t comes on apace; my

    sumacbriers tremble. -- E, is it you?  how do

    you like to-day?

    Poet.  See ts test

    to-day.  t in old paintings,

    not in foreign lands -- unless whe

    coast of Spain.  ts a true Mediterranean sky.  I t, as I

    o get, and  eaten to-day, t I might go

    a-fiss true industry for poets.  It is the only

    trade I s along.

    .  I cannot resist.  My brown bread will soon be gone.  I

    I am just concluding a serious

    meditation.  I t I am near t.  Leave me alone,

    t t  be delayed, you shall be

    digging t mean h in

    ts, he race

    is nearly extinct.  t of digging t is nearly equal to

    t of catcite is not too keen; and

    to yourself today.  I o set