'What a lot he's collected,' cried Rogers from his point of vantage
where he could see inside. 'It all gets purified and clean in there.
Wait a moment. He's coming out again--off to make another collection.'
And then they knew the man for what he was. He shot past them into the
night, carrying this time a flat and emptied sack, and singing like a
blackbird as he went:--
Sweeping chimneys and cleaning flues,
That is the work I love;
Brushing away the blacks and the blues,
And letting in light from above!
I twirl my broom in your tired brain
When you're tight in sleep up-curled,
Then scatter the stuff in a soot-like rain
Over the edge of the world.
The voice grew fainter and fainter in the distance--
For I'm a tremendously busy Sweep,
Catching the folk when they're all asleep,
And tossing the blacks on the Rubbish Heap
Over the edge of the world...!
The voice died away into the wind among the high branches, and they
heard it no more.
'There's a Sweep worth knowing,' murmured Rogers, strong yearning in
him.
'There are no blacks or blues in _my_ brain,' exclaimed Monkey, 'but
Jimbo's always got some on his face.'
The impudence passed ignored. Jimbo took his cousin's hand and led him
to the opening. The 'men' went in first together; the other sex might
follow as best it could.
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