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Updated: May 26, 2025
Whenever he approached it, after a long day's tramp, when he caught the first sight of the white birches that marked the gateway to his estate and showed him where to turn off the public road into his own private grounds, he smiled a broader smile than usual, and broke into his well-known song: "I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding, An' hear the whis-sle of the jol-ly swain."
He renewed his youth at every mile. He ran like a lapwing. When his feet first struck the sandy soil of the plains, he broke into old song of the "bloom-in' gy-ar-ding" and the "jolly swain," and in the marvelous mental and spiritual exhilaration born of the supreme moment he almost grasped that impossible last note.
Tom was huddled in a heap on the straw bed in the far corner. The vacant smile had fled from his face, and he looked, for the first time in his life, quite distraught. "Come along, Tom," said the sheriff kindly; "we 're going to take you where you can sleep in a bed, and have three meals a day." "I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding,"
They love him, too, till we teach them to mock. When he was younger, he would sing, "Rock-a-by, baby, on the treetop," and dance the while, swinging his unfinished basket to and fro for a cradle. He was too stiff in the joints for dancing nowadays, but he still sang the "bloomin' gy-ar-ding" when ever they asked him, particularly if some apple-cheeked little maid would say, "Please, Tom!"
"I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding, An' hear the whis-sle of the jol-ly swain." Everybody knows the song, and everybody knows the cracked voice. The master of this bit of silent wilderness is coming home: it is Tom o' the blueb'ry plains. He is more than common tall, with a sandy beard, and a mop of tangled hair straggling beneath his torn straw hat.
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