mr man with knife send me off to ponder

ththee old man set there whittlin' on a piece a balsa and spitting out into the wash gutter of the street. The clouds were so big in the big blue sky they were to give me headaches and siezures. them's days you just have to pick yourself up by your shoestrings and dust yourself off moving on, the old man sat and them clouds got bigger, none with rain, some like chikcens others like dogs, and they moved along over the precence of a sedentary man and myself who ws listening. he said, the old man said, after about a few minutes of this and that, he said, some things is like a quick spring, them early springs that burble up on the first good warm rain in may; and other things is like a tombstone, not to move, just to sit and wait on it's folks to come and trim it up or cut the grass around it's base. most everything is like the corpse inside - but them quick springs, they is life giving, they's what can do all honors to a miserable time or a tired thing, the drink from a quick spring, kneeling down among the bloodroot and moss, the wet coming in through the knees of your pants and the palms of your hands getting hurt cold by the natural good cold of the water, which had been sleeping in the belly of the earth until enough new water come along to get her going, the drink from a cick spring can make a person kindly appreciate all what's good and easy to forget a harm or an anger. it's like drinking from the hads of god, travelling water is what i calls it, cause it gets your soul to moving about and m