Distorted readings, noise, and blame!
Chapter 2
#62038; rus!
Horace
#62038; Rus'!*
1
The place Eugene found so confining
Was quite a lovely country nest,
Where one who favoured soft reclining
Would thank his stars to be so blest.
The manor house, in proud seclusion,
Screened by a hill from wind's intrusion,
Stood by a river. Far away
Green meads and golden cornfields lay,
Lit by the sun as it paraded;
Small hamlets too the eye could see
And cattle wand'ring o'er the lea;
While near at hand, all dense and shaded,
A vast neglected garden made
A nook where pensive dryads played.
2
The ancient manse had been erected
For placid comfortand to last;
And all its solid form reflected
The sense and taste of ages past.
Throughout the house the ceilings towered,
From walls ancestral portraits glowered;
The drawing room had rich brocades
And stoves of tile in many shades.
All this today seems antiquated
I don't know why; but in the end
It hardly mattered to my friend,
For he'd become so fully jaded,
He yawned alike where'er he sat,
In ancient hall or modern flat.
3
He settled where the former squire
For forty years had heaved his sighs,
Had cursed the cook in useless ire,
Stared out the window, and squashed flies.
The furnishings were plain but stable:
A couch, two cupboards, and a table,
No spot of ink on oaken floors. O
negin opened cupboard doors
And found in one a list of wages,
Some fruit liqueurs and applejack,
And in the next an almanac
From eighteen-eight with tattered pages;
The busy master never took
A glance in any other book.
