Properties
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- 3070
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:41:20.744Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 3021
- text
- fire, and a squaw weaving a blanket. The squaw that was weaving the blanket was sort of
bending over, and you could see her bosom and all. We all used to sneak a good look at
it, even the girls, because they were only little kids and they didn't have any more bosom
than we did. Then, just before you went inside the auditorium, right near the doors, you
passed this Eskimo. He was sitting over a hole in this icy lake, and he was fishing
through it. He had about two fish right next to the hole, that he'd already caught. Boy, that
museum was full of glass cases. There were even more upstairs, with deer inside them
drinking at water holes, and birds flying south for the winter. The birds nearest you were
all stuffed and hung up on wires, and the ones in back were just painted on the wall, but
they all looked like they were really flying south, and if you bent your head down and
sort of looked at them upside down, they looked in an even bigger hurry to fly south. The
best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was.
Nobody'd move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would
still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south,
the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their
pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that
same blanket. Nobody'd be different. The only thing that would be different would be
you. Not that you'd be so much older or anything. It wouldn't be that, exactly. You'd just
be different, that's all. You'd have an overcoat on this time. Or the kid that was your
partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner. Or you'd
have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger. Or you'd heard your
mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom. Or you'd just passed by one of
those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in
some way--I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.
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I took my old hunting hat out of my pocket while I walked, and put it on. I knew I
wouldn't meet anybody that knew me, and it was pretty damp out. I kept walking and
walking, and I kept thinking about old Phoebe going to that museum on Saturdays the
way I used to. I thought how she'd see the same stuff I used to see, and how she'd be
different every time she saw it. It didn't exactly depress me to think about it, but it didn't
make me feel gay as hell, either. Certain things they should stay the way they are. You
ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone. I
know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway. Anyway, I kept thinking about all that
while I walked.
I passed by this playground and stopped and watched a couple of very tiny kids
on a seesaw. One of them was sort of fat, and I put my hand on the skinny kid's end, to
sort of even up the weight, but you could tell they didn't want me around, so I let them
alone.
Then a funny thing happened. When I got to the museum, all of a sudden I
wouldn't have gone inside for a million bucks. It just didn't appeal to me--and here I'd
walked through the whole goddam park and looked forward to it and all. If Phoebe'd been
there, I probably would have, but she wasn't. So all I did, in front of the museum, was get
a cab and go down to the Biltmore. I didn't feel much like going. I'd made that damn date
with Sally, though.
17
I was way early when I got there, so I just sat down on one of those leather
couches right near the clock in the lobby and watched the girls. A lot of schools were
home for vacation already, and there were about a million girls sitting and standing
around waiting for their dates to show up. Girls with their legs crossed, girls with their
- title
- Chunk 5