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THE SWINE HERD
A TALE OF THE BALKAN MOUNTAINS[1]
APPROACH of evening in a land of black mountains. Fine, cold rain like a winding sheet. A highway crawling along the narrow valley, about half way up the height, like a man bent over a stone, or a goat; from afar it looks like a woolen thread stretched across a cliff.
The wet rocks shone like black coals, or metal mirrors. Now and then a ray of light from the west slipped across the barren waste.
It was cold. What difference did it make if it was? In the cell of a cloister I knew there was a hearth kept warm for me; I was hastening toward the warmth, toward people—even if they were silent people—toward the smoke of homes and the cheerful light.
- ↑ The writer of this story followed in the wake of the armies and wrote of the country he saw. This story was first published about three years ago.
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