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Updated: May 18, 2025
Nancy think of the gay little brook in the pasture behind the house at home at home, in far New England. Surely it must have been a strange wind of destiny that wafted this unadventurous little woman across half a continent to the very foot of the Rocky Mountains a long and weary journey for the young and vigorous. Yet it was something no stranger than a mother's love for her only child.
It was all very simple and unadventurous, but everyone seemed to enjoy it the men whose march had only been from Ratcham and those whose dusty clothes told of the many long miles they had tramped since early morn. The crowd was greater than ever when the town was reached again, the 205th's band leading them and making the streets echo to the strains of "The British Grenadiers."
Now they were stopping at a squat red frame station, the platform crowded with unshaven farmers and with loafers unadventurous people with dead eyes. She was here. She could not go on. It was the end the end of the world. She sat with closed eyes, longing to push past Kennicott, hide somewhere in the train, flee on toward the Pacific. Something large arose in her soul and commanded, "Stop it!
But I had achieved a frigate and a Princess, and that was not so bad for a beginning, and more than enough to show off with before those dull unadventurous folk who continued on their mill-horse round at home.
The old mill stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.
"They were so unadventurous," he retorted. "I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together." "You don't imagine I shall tell her." "Will you promise?" When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her but she interrupted herself. "Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily."
Manifestly, he had only to ask and receive, but, alas! he was an unadventurous, plain gentleman; he alighted at his own village; he drove home in his own dogcart; the fugitive pair went forward, and the Gretna blacksmith united them in holy matrimony. The rest is silence.
My journey was unadventurous, if you except a row with a German, who refused to let me open the window. But this has nothing to do with my narrative, and is not a false scent to make a guileless reader keep his eye on the Teuton. Some novelists permit themselves these artifices, which I think untradesmanlike and unworthy.
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