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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

Where they were bestowed
was a puzzle to me until (as I was strolling about the garden patch
waiting for breakfast) I came on a barn door, and, looking in, saw
all the red face mixed in the straw like plums in a cake. Quoth
the stalwart maid who brought me my porridge and bade me 'eat them
while they were hot,' 'Ay, they were a' on the ran-dan last nicht!
Hout! they're fine lads, and they'll be nane the waur of it. Forby
Farbes's coat. I dinna see wha's to get the creish off that!' she
added, with a sigh; in which, identifying Forbes as the torch-
bearer, I mentally joined.
It was a brave morning when I took the road; the sun shone, spring
seemed in the air, it smelt like April or May, and some over-
venturous birds sang in the coppices as I went by. I had plenty to
think of, plenty to be grateful for, that gallant morning; and yet
I had a twitter at my heart. To enter the city by daylight might
be compared to marching on a battery; every face that I confronted
would threaten me like the muzzle of a gun; and it came into my
head suddenly with how much better a countenance I should be able
to do it if I could but improvise a companion. Hard by Merchiston
I was so fortunate as to observe a bulky gentleman in broadcloth
and gaiters, stooping with his head almost between his knees,
before a stone wall.


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