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As I sat of an early su fried bacon with a tinker, the thought caht some day write a book of my own: a book that should treat

of the roads and by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places,

of rapid brooks and lazy strea, and the purple solitude of night; a book of wayside

inns and sequestered taverns; a book of country things and ways

and people And the thought pleased me much

"But," objected the Tinker, for I had spoken ht aloud,

"trees and suchlike don't sound very interestin'--leastways--not

in a book, for after all a tree's only a tree and an inn, an inn;

no, you s as well"

"Yes," said I, a little dahwayly

"Then," I went on, ticking off each iteilist--"

"Better and better!" nodded the Tinker

"--a one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a

lonely tavern, a flight through woods at ht pursued by

desperate villains, and--a ood, I think, and it all sounds adventurous enough"

"What!" cried the Tinker "Would you put me in your book then?"

"Assuredly"

"Why then," said the Tinker, "it's true I mends kettles, sharpens

scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books an' nov-els, an'