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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"

I did honestly try to find the way to Cariboo Meadows that
first night. It was only when I found myself thinking how fine it
would be to pike through these old woods and mountains with a partner
like you that I decided--as I did. I'm human--the woman, she tempted
me. And aren't you better off? I could hazard a guess that you were
running away from yourself--or something--when you struck Cariboo
Meadows. And what's Cariboo Meadows but a little blot on the face of
this fair earth, where you were tied to a deadly routine in order to
earn your daily bread? You don't care two whoops about anybody there.
Here you are free--free in every sense of the word. You have no
responsibility except what you impose on yourself; no board bills to
pay; nobody to please but your own little self. You've got the clean,
wide land for a bedroom, and the sky for its ceiling, instead of a
stuffy little ten-by-ten chamber. Do you know that you look fifty per
cent better for these few days of living in the open--the way every
normal being likes to live? You're getting some color in your cheeks,
and you're losing that worried, archangel look. Honest, if I were a
physician, I'd have only one prescription: Get out into the wild
country, and live off the country as your primitive forefathers did.


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