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Father is out to his tea, and I’ve stolen an hour at last To come and gather the wharé peaches, that fall in the wind so fast: —The wild little wharé peaches, that pucker your mouth so sore, By the wharé that won’t be the wharé ever to me any more!

..This was the place that he lived in. In he came, at at this door, Touch’d you, like this....O happy window!....and wall.... and floor! Here, he must have stood, often: he will have sat, like this.... And his head will have lain—O pillow! ’tisn’t yourself I kiss.

....Just the newspaper-pictures, pasted up on the wall; Stretcher, and old camp-oven, and ricketty stool— that’s all! ..Cold: silent: and empty....But, hasn’t he left it clean?— Even the wharé’s better, Phil, for being where you have been.