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And the packet, warping in twice a week, was, after all, something to which one might look forward and Mr. Inchpin's books would be wonderful. Jason was sure that the Ohio valley in which he had spent the whole of his short life was the most beautiful spot in the world.
Brother Wilkins looked gratified, but when he repeated the little compliment to Jason's mother he added, "I don't believe I understand Jason altogether." "I do," said Mrs. Wilkins, stoutly. August came to an end with cool nights and shorter days and Mr. Inchpin's barn was finished of a Saturday evening. "There you are, my man. I'd intended to give you only two.
Inchpin's new barn, never once visiting the swimming hole in the brook, never once heeding the long-drawn invitation of the cicada to loll under the trees with one of Mr. Inchpin's books, never once breaking away when the toot of the packet reverberated among the hills. "He's a fine lad," Mr. Inchpin told Jason's father. "I never have seen such determination in a little fellow."
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