- end_line
- 10405
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:25.203Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10384
- text
- his tiny house. Frequently suspending his employment, and noticing my
melancholy eye fixed upon him, he would raise his hand with a gesture
expressive of deep commiseration, and then moving towards me slowly,
would enter on tip-toes, fearful of disturbing the slumbering natives,
and, taking the fan from my hand, would sit before me, swaying it gently
to and fro, and gazing earnestly into my face.
Just beyond the pi-pi, and disposed in a triangle before the entrance
of the house, were three magnificent bread-fruit trees. At this moment I
can recap to my mind their slender shafts, and the graceful inequalities
of their bark, on which my eye was accustomed to dwell day after day in
the midst of my solitary musings. It is strange how inanimate objects
will twine themselves into our affections, especially in the hour of
affliction. Even now, amidst all the bustle and stir of the proud and
busy city in which I am dwelling, the image of those three trees seems
to come as vividly before my eyes as if they were actually present, and
I still feel the soothing quiet pleasure which I then had in watching
hour after hour their topmost boughs waving gracefully in the breeze.
- title
- Chunk 4