We sat there, sipping coffee and eating those cakes and talking. She started in about the weather just like we hadn't had those other words at all. I asked her about her Pa, and she asked me about Parmalee and Logan, and then somehow she got started telling me about a poem she'd been reading called the Idylls of the King, by somebody named Tennyson. I knew a puncher back in the Cherokee nation by that name but it couldn't be the same one. The last time I saw him I don't think he could even read a book, let alone write one.
(from Galloway, by Louis L'Amour)
No comments:
Post a Comment