Writings by Susan Dickinson


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  10

bitter cold 'till turned out by the drifts into the shelter of some
farmhouse near us on the north, for any farther progress semed impossi-
ble. I shall never forget his comical outline, as after adding layer
upon layer of wraps, more furs, more mittens, a long red muffler of [?]
for [?]
Papa's was twisted into almost a hangmen's knot, about where his neck
should be or have been. We had cordial adieus, hopes to meet again, the smoking stones
were tucked about him, the driver cracked his whip [?] [?] [?] [?], and dear old Tom Ben-
ton was gone. Whoever met this wintry craft that steel[?] day would not have fancied any
thing more alive was being trans freighted through the snow, than a gin-
ger-bread man, or an Egyptian mummy. The next year he died, and we went
about saying with softened breath and real affection , if with a bit of
reverent humor, "Where was Benton then !! .



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Last updated on January 23, 2008

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