Jogging o’er wood and dale,  o'er corn-field-ed hill,  passing through brush so tall, and trickling rivulets cold. Tripping o’er stumpy roots, and thumping in the road, breathing deeply in and out the springy air so cold. Strolling ‘midst grassy way feeling it by and by, picking dandelions off the stem and dozily letting them fly. Whistling far-off and unheard tunes which soar to branches aloof, singing to absent melody while swaying dreamily. Failing, falls the sun below and shadows deepen ‘round the eaves  pulling out a pipe he blows puffing a misty, thoughtful haze.    

Chapter the Fourteenth

Some months later, across the East Sea