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Here and there might be seen a small clearing, with its shake-roofed cottage of logs to cheer the wayfaring traveler from the distance, but how often to disappoint him when he found it alone and tenantless. Looking in at the window he might see the rough floor made of unpolished split logs, the sodden ashes in the open fire place, the pole bedstead in the corner, and the cross-legged table in the floor. Turning his sad feet from the deserted window and elbowing his way among stumps and through mingled fire weeds and thistles, he explores the spot which was lately the emigrant's home. Frightening the robin from her nest in the chinks of the log stable and the bluejay from the well sweep, he sacrilegiously stumbles upon a grave with roughly split slabs at the head and foot.
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