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222 And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse
 * of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,

And the school-mistress that passed on her way to the
 * school,

And the friendly boys that passed—and the quarrelsome
 * boys,

And the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls—and the bare-foot
 * negro boy and girl,

And all the changes of city and country, wherever he
 * went.

His own parents, He that had fathered him, and she that conceived him
 * in her womb, and birthed him,

They gave this child more of themselves than that, They gave him afterward every day—they and of
 * them became part of him.

The mother at home, quietly placing the dishes on the
 * supper-table,

The mother with mild words—clean her cap and
 * gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person
 * and clothes as she walks by;

The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered,
 * unjust,

The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the
 * crafty lure,

The family usages, the language, the company, the
 * furniture—the yearning and swelling heart,

Affection that will not be gainsayed—the sense of
 * what is real—the thought if, after all, it should
 * prove unreal,

The doubts of day-time and the doubts of night-time—
 * the curious whether and how,