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Excerpt from Sweet Beulah Land

 A strange, unreal country. Across the fields and along the road there were little gray houses squatting behind umbrella trees, tiny white cottages dwarfed by oaks, tall weather-beaten buildings peeping over sugar maples, drab shacks without trees, and now and then big white shining houses erect amoung elm avenues and dusky groves. A few people glimmered dimly into his vision up and down the road, but they were as unreal as the hot ashes in which he walked, as the wilderness of roofs without one stray roof where a wanderer might find shelter. The old man sitting in a buggy stiff and white and unseeing like the dead, grazing Lan with his buggy wheel in passing; the shrill laughter of the man and woman playing like children around the yard oak before the tiny white cottage that was grown up in pink flowers; the laughing girls and boys speeding along in a truck toward the river, the girls hollering to him to come on; the wild music floating from the tall gaunt house, where a cow grazed on yellow yard flowers; the wagon loaded with broken furniture and people moving slowly toward the highway; the man holding a woman in his arms at the mill, all these had something to do with the unreality and strangeness of the road, when all roads had been home, enough.

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