But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. "Go to the pump, Nab," he said, when this was done, "and fill a pail with water. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. .
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