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Updated: June 21, 2025
"Who first invented work and bound the free And holyday-rejoicing spirit down To the ever-haunting importunity Of business, in the green fields, and the town To plough, loom, anvil, spade and oh! most sad, To this dry drudgery of the desk's dead wood?
Walter," he continued, in a lower voice, "I hope that you'll have nothing to do with this humbug?" "I will though, Henderson; if I'm to have nothing but canings and floggings, I may just as well be caned and flogged for something as for nothing." "The desk's locked," said Anthony; "we shan't be able to get hold of the imposition-book."
When he heard the door open he exclaimed, before raising his head, "My, these first flies of the season do bother me so!" and then looked startled. "Good-evening," greeted Ned Trent, stopping squarely in the centre of the room. The clergyman spread his arms along the desk's edge in embarrassment. "Good-evening," he returned, reluctantly. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
On the desk's top were more specimens, three or four fat old books from Widewood, and on one corner, by the hour, his own feet, in tight boots, when he read Washington's Letters, Story on the Constitution, or the Geology of Dixie. What interested Suez most of all was his sign. It professed no occupation. "John March." That was all it proclaimed, for a time, in gilt, on a field of blue smalts.
Presently there sank an arm across his shoulders. It was the master's. Drop drop two big tears fell upon the rude desk's sleeve-polished wood. The small, hard, right hand slowly left its fellow, and rubbed off the wet spots. "Claude, you have something to disclose me?" The drooping head nodded. "And 'tis not something done wrongly?" The lad shook his head.
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