But my wrists and hands were aching, wet, and my thin, plying legs, to
my knees. And the "squash-squish!" of my soaked feet in the mud plodded
a steady refrain of misery.
My Keats, at least, was dry. I kept the volume under my belt and against
my naked belly.
And I was happy and buoyed up by the thought, which lessened my
discomfiture, that Sunday morning thousands of readers in comfortable
homes would be reading about me, would gaze upon my photograph.
People looked out of their farmhouse windows at me as if an insane man
were stalking by.
It darkened rapidly.
My first night's shelter was in a leaky outhouse. The farmstead to which
it belonged had burned down. I might have been taken in at any number of
places, but my access of timidity was too great ... it might on the
following dawn be followed by as great an effrontery. My year in college
had disorganized me, pulled me out of my tramp character. It was no more
a usual thing to beg or ask for shelter.
I could not sleep. My muscles were already overstrained from the
excessive effort of struggling along in the tenacious mud, like a fly
escaping from the edge of spilled molasses.
I had brought a box of small candles for just such an emergency. I lit
one after the other, sat on the seat, and read Keats all night ... in
an ecstasy, forgetting my surroundings, my pitiful poverty, my
pilgrimage that would seem ridiculous to most.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367