I had not thought of my singer
as _that_, for I had often been conscious in spite of myself, alone in
my fields, of something human and cheerful which had touched me, in
passing.
After Harriet applied her name to my singer, I was of two minds
concerning him. I struggled with myself: I tried instinctively to
discipline my pulses when I heard the sound of his singing. For was he
not a drunkard? Lord! how we get our moralities mixed up with our
realities!
And then one evening when I saw him coming--I had been a long day alone
in my fields--I experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. With an
indescribable joyousness of adventure I stepped out toward the fence and
pretended to be hard at work.
"After all," I said to myself, "this is a large world, with room in it
for many curious people."
I waited in excitement. When he came near me I straightened up just as
though I had seen him for the first time. When he lifted his hat to me
I lifted my hat as grandiloquently as he.
"How are you, neighbour?" I asked.
He paused for a single instant and gave me a smile; then he replaced his
hat as though he had far more important business to attend to, and went
on up the road.
My next glimpse of him was a complete surprise to me.
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