“Historical or poetical?” sez he.
And I sez, “Both.”
I couldn’t bring my emotions down in that place to explain, and I told the truth, anyway. Historys she wrote that always will be true as long as hearts beat and suffer. Poetry wuz in ’em, whose great rythm hants the hearts of ’em whose ears are tuned to understand the strange melodies. For no two people can ever find the same things in a book—what inspires you, and thrills your heart almost to bustin’, will slip over the head and heart of somebody else, and make no impression.
Curous, hain’t it?
A-leadin’ Adrian and a-plannin’ sunthin’ with him relatin’ to a whistle.
Wall, we looked round for a long time—Josiah not enjoyin’ himself a bit, so fur as I could see, but a-leadin’ Adrian and a-plannin’ sunthin’ with him relatin’ to a whistle he could make out of a stick.
Alice’s soft eyes held sweetness and compassion, but she owned that she’d never read the books.
Al Faizi, too, wuz a stranger to ’em. But he would have enjoyed ’em if he had—he’s made in jest the right way.
Wall, Martin wuz in haste, and we left the sacred spot, leavin’ a little gift, too, in the hands of the old servant who showed us round.