Conversation
Notices
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"Pore people like dirt and bad repair," said the agent. "Why bless you, they woulden't know themselves without a bug or two in the wall to keep the 'ome together and an 'ole in the winder to let in the sun to dry the clo'es by.
[...]
The march of civilization is not a particularly well organized procession; sometimes it almost seems as if the stragglers outnumber those who keep in step. At any rate, in the Brown Borough most of us are content to linger on the long road, even though it be dark, and though there be no lights to lead us, and no flowers to make lingering worth while. In the van of the march the music brays confidently, wearying the ears of heaven with its brazen boastings of progress, but no echo of that music reaches us or cheers us, strung out wearily as we are along the forgotten miles.
Perhaps Heaven only hears the boasting, perhaps Heaven has washed its hands of us, perhaps after all we are but dirt and deserve nothing better.
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