When
the wind sings like that in the chimney, it is sweeping full and sharp
down the village street, and across the flats by the graveyard, whither
he goes hobbling.
Little Colonel comes cautiously into the room, hugging the wall till he
is back at the fireside. With his head between his fore-paws and one
eye closed, he watches the tiny tongue of flame licking up the last
coal. There are worse lives than a dog's.
XVI
Tim came whistling down the road. He whistled full and clear, and
while he was still at the turn of the hill the wind brought me a bit of
his rollicking tune as I huddled on the school-house steps, waiting.
The world was going well with him. He had all that the wise count
good; he was winning what the foolish count better. With head high and
swinging arms he came on, the beat of his feet on the hard road keeping
time to his gay whistling. Tim was winning in the game. While his
brother was droning over the reader and the spelling-book with
two-score leather-headed children, he was fighting his way upward in
the world of commerce.
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