Mr. Bucket

           AllegorylooksprettycoolinLincoln’sInnFields,thoughtheeveningishot,forbothMr.Tulkinghorn’swindowsarewideopen,andtheroomislofty,gusty,andgloomy.ThesemaynotbedesirablecharacteristicswhenNovembercomeswithfogandsleetorJanuarywithiceandsnow,buttheyhavetheirmeritsinthesultrylongvacationweather.TheyenableAllegory,thoughithascheekslikepeaches,andkneeslikebunchesofblossoms,androsyswellingsforcalvestoitslegsandmusclestoitsarms,tolooktolerablycoolto-night.PlentyofdustcomesinatMr.Tulkinghorn’swindows,andplentymorehasgeneratedamonghisfurnitureandpapers.Itliesthickeverywhere.Whenabreezefromthecountrythathaslostitswaytakesfrightandmakesablindhurrytorushoutagain,itflingsasmuchdustintheeyesofAllegoryasthelaworMr.Tulkinghorn,oneofitstrustiestrepresentativesmayscatter,onoccasion,intheeyesofthelaity.Inhisloweringmagazineofdust,theuniversalarticleintowhichhispapersandhimself,andallhisclients,andallthingsofearth,animateandinanimate,areresolving,Mr.Tulkinghornsitsatoneoftheopenwindowsenjoyingabottleofoldport.Thoughahard-grainedman,close,dry,andsilent,hecanenjoyoldwinewiththebest.HehasapricelessbinofportinsomeartfulcellarundertheFields,whichisoneofhismanysecrets.

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