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Harry Pemberton's Text.
BY ELIZABETH ARMSTRONG.
"He that hath clean hands and a pure heart."
Harry Pemberton went down the street whistling a merry tune. It was one
I like very much, and you all know it, for it has been played by street
bands and organs, and heard on every street corner for as many years as
you boys have been living on the earth. "Wait till the clouds roll by,
Jenny, wait till the clouds roll by." The lads I am writing this story
for are between ten and fourteen years old, and they know that the
clouds do once in a while roll around a person's path, and block the
way, because fogs and mists _can_ block the way just as well as a big
black stone wall.
At the corner of the street a red-headed, blue-eyed lad, a head taller
than Harry, joined the latter. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder and
walked beside him.
"Well," said this last comer, whose name was Frank Fletcher, "will your
mother let you go, Harry, boy? I hope she doesn't object."
"But she does," said Harry, quickly "Mother doesn't think it right for
us to start on such an expedition and she says all parents will say the
same."
"Of all things, where can the harm be? Only none of the rest of us have
to ask leave, as you do."
"Mother," said Harry, disregarding this speech, "is of the opinion that
to enter a man's garden by the back gate, when the family are all away,
is breaking into his premises and going where you haven't a right, and
is burglary, and if you take flowers or anything, then it's stealing.
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