He kept on and on, walking with that sack tied up from canvas, slowly humming a tune which sang out to the mountains. It made them move every time. Up and down he bobbed with an even step, bouncing slightly with each one. His feet were tired, and holes were torn in his soles, but he kept on and on feeling the sidewalks, the paths, and sometimes where there was no path at all. Passage he had felt arbitrary; time stood still, the hills stood, the trees stayed. There was no hurry so, on he bobbed, up and down, over plains and corn mazes, over leaves turned red and orange, over pine needles and pebbled streams, on and on.


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