Marley. This man's
soul was made of tweed, of very thick tweed, and of an indefinite colour, the
colour of grim tweed. A grim, tweedy soul, it was. He would leave his house at
certain times every day, and walk round to the park, sit on a bench, the same
bench every time, and think. He would then take the long way back home. He'd go
out again, to the park, to the bench, and back home the long way. Over and over
and over. What was to an external observer the same routine was a deep and
exciting, grim and tweedy experience for Marley. 'There goes Mr. Marley', and
'I wonder what he's thinking', and so on. Others would go to the park to play
and to chat, but Marley went to listen and to think. Listen and think, grim and
tweedy. One day at the park, Marley met a pig named Pork. Pork told him all
about his farm, his family and his plans for the future, and Marley listened to
every word; he was very attentive. Pork thanked him, and went on his way, while
Marley stayed on the bench, and thought.
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