The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp (The life of William Henry Davies)
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W. H. Davies. The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp (The life of William Henry Davies)
The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp
Table of Contents
Chapter 1. Childhood
Chapter 2. Youth
Chapter 3. Manhood
Chapter 4. Brum
Chapter 5. A Tramp’s Summer Vacation
Chapter 6. A Night’s Ride
Chapter 7. Law in America
Chapter 8. A Prisoner His Own Judge
Chapter 9. Berry Picking
Chapter 10. The Cattleman’s Office
Chapter 11. A Strange Cattleman
Chapter 12. Thieves
Chapter 13. The Canal
Chapter 14. The House-boat
Chapter 15. A Lynching
Chapter 16. The Camp
Chapter 17. Home
Chapter 18. Off Again
Chapter 19. A Voice in the Dark
Chapter 20. Hospitality
Chapter 21. London
Chapter 22. The Ark
Chapter 23. Gridling
Chapter 24. On the Downright
Chapter 25. The Farmhouse
Chapter 26. Rain and Poverty
Chapter 27. False Hopes
Chapter 28. On Tramp Again
Chapter 29. A Day’s Companion
Chapter 30. The Fortune
Chapter 31. Some Ways of Making a Living
Chapter 32. At Last
Chapter 33. Success
Chapter 34. A House to Let
Отрывок из книги
W. H. Davies
(The life of William Henry Davies)
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At home I was cured of thieving by what I thought at that time to be a very remarkable incident — no more or less than the result of witchcraft. One day my grandmother happened to be standing before the fire cooking, and above the fireplace was a large mirror, towards which her eyes were turned. Thinking this a favourable opportunity to rifle the sugar basin, I lost no time in making the attempt; but my fingers had scarcely closed on a large lump when the old lady, without in the least turning her head, cried in a shrill voice, “You dare!” For my life I could not account for this discovery, and it sent such a shock through me that I never again attempted in the old lady’s presence to be other than honest. She could close her eyes in the arm chair and even breathe audibly, but I never had the confidence to make another attempt. But this incident at home had no detrimental effect on my courage abroad.
At this time I had a boy companion, named Dave, who was a great reader, had enough self-confidence to recite in public, and was a wonderful raconteur of tales. Great things were expected of him in after years. I have heard since that intemperance prevented their fulfilment, but we were too innocent in those days to think that such would be the case. Through him I became a reader, in the first place with an idea of emulating his cleverness, which led to a love of literature for its own self. Of course I began with the common penny novel of the worst type, but acquired a taste for better work in a shorter time than boys usually do.
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