Today I got this far before I broke down and started rewriting. So this is where I stop (note this is not the start, only today's output).
The deck was crowded with people coming and going from their cabins. The boy stood close on the day looking down at the pier, close by his sister’s wool coat and she smiled and nodded at people passing by, and waved to a few people down on the pier. As they stood there his father approached, unmistakable in his aura among other men. Beside him walked a balding old man with a long white beard, he hands clasped behind his back as he listened to the boy’s father talking to him.
“By the way, Muir, any mail to send before we raise the gangplank?”
The old man’s eyes lit up. He stopped in mid stride with his eyesbrows raised. “Why yes, Ned, a letter to my wife. Right here.”
“Well, let’s have it man! We can’t leave her out of this!”
The old man reached into his coat pocket and a drew out the cream-colored envelope with the ornate handwritten address. As he did so, his father motioned a man standing nearby on the deck, beckoning him over.
“Mr. Muir has a letter to post,” he said to the man who had stepped forward. Please make sure this gets sent before we leave.”
“Yes sir” said the man who had stepped forward. He took the letter from the old man, whose name was of course Muir, and hurried along the deck away from the little boy.
1 comment:
""John Muir retained his Scottish accent even after moving to America. He was born in Dunbar, Scotland, in 1838 and emigrated with his family to Wisconsin in 1849 when he was 11 years old. Despite spending most of his life in the United States, Muir's Scottish brogue remained noticeable throughout his life.
His accent, combined with his poetic language and passionate storytelling, added to his charisma and influence as a naturalist and conservationist. Accounts from people who met him often mention his distinctive Scottish lilt, which complemented his deep, philosophical reflections on nature."
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