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Three Men in a Boat / Three Men on the Bummel

Three Men in a Boat / Three Men on the Bummel

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— 69 —<br />

down <strong>on</strong> your — I mean you lean over <strong>the</strong> bank, you know, and<br />

sloush <strong>the</strong> th<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>gs about <str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g> <strong>the</strong> water.”<br />

The elder sister said that she was afraid that <strong>the</strong>y hadn’t got<br />

<strong>on</strong> dresses suited to <strong>the</strong> work.<br />

“Oh, <strong>the</strong>y’ll be all right,” said he light-heartedly; “tuck ’em<br />

up.”<br />

And he made <strong>the</strong>m do it, too. He told <strong>the</strong>m that that sort<br />

of th<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g was half <strong>the</strong> fun of a picnic. They said it was very<br />

<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>terest<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g.<br />

Now I come to th<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>k it over, was that young man as denseheaded<br />

as we thought? or was he — no, impossible! <strong>the</strong>re was<br />

such a simple, child-like expressi<strong>on</strong> about him!<br />

Harris wanted to get out at Hampt<strong>on</strong> Church, to go and see<br />

Mrs. Thomas’s tomb.<br />

“Who is Mrs. Thomas?” I asked.<br />

“How should I know?” replied Harris. “She’s a lady that’s got<br />

a funny tomb, and I want to see it.”<br />

I objected. I d<strong>on</strong>’t know whe<strong>the</strong>r it is that I am built wr<strong>on</strong>g,<br />

but I never did seem to hanker after tombst<strong>on</strong>es myself. I<br />

know that <strong>the</strong> proper th<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g to do, when you get to a village or<br />

town, is to rush off to <strong>the</strong> churchyard, and enjoy <strong>the</strong> graves;<br />

but it is a recreati<strong>on</strong> that I always deny myself. I take no <str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>terest<br />

<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g> creep<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g round dim and chilly churches beh<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>d wheezy<br />

old men, and read<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g epitaphs. Not even <strong>the</strong> sight of a bit of<br />

cracked brass let <str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>to a st<strong>on</strong>e affords me what I call real happ<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>ess.<br />

I shock respectable sext<strong>on</strong>s by <strong>the</strong> imperturbability I am<br />

able to assume before excit<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g <str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>scripti<strong>on</strong>s, and by my lack of<br />

enthusiasm for <strong>the</strong> local family history, while my ill-c<strong>on</strong>cealed<br />

anxiety to get outside wounds <strong>the</strong>ir feel<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>gs.<br />

One golden morn<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g of a sunny day, I leant aga<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>st <strong>the</strong> low<br />

st<strong>on</strong>e wall that guarded a little village church, and I smoked,<br />

and drank <str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g> deep, calm gladness from <strong>the</strong> sweet, restful<br />

scene — <strong>the</strong> grey old church with its cluster<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g ivy and its<br />

qua<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>t carved wooden porch, <strong>the</strong> white lane w<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>d<str<strong>on</strong>g>in</str<strong>on</strong>g>g down <strong>the</strong><br />

hill between tall rows of elms, <strong>the</strong> thatched-roof cottages peep-

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