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THE ANTIQUE

Oh, yes, it took all her time;She was going tomorrow to look at a cedar chestIn a farmhouse miles away . . .
I could have turned to herAnd shown her an antique she overlooked,With bloodless, gnarled old legs,With a flattened O-Gee swell toward the head,And a soul twisted with lust for acquiring;Reverencing as priceless relicsThe discarded shells of man's habitations,Like a fussy and energetic tumble-bugGathering the leavings of the past;Happily nesting herself in musty fragmentsOf a life that was young and lusty and forward-marching.What a queer, stagnant back-waterOf the stream of life!
Her flowing chatter aroused me."I saw such a queer sign in that shop," she said;"'The Trash of the Past is the Treasure of the Future.'Such a queer sign."

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