He never thought of entering a protest against the loss of his goods; like a child, he submitted, and wept.

He had been there eleven years, and it was hard to go away.

He spread open on the bed a blue handkerchief, and on it put one by one the things he thought most necessary and important--a little bag of curious seeds, which he meant to plant some day, an old German hymn-book, three misshapen stones that he greatly valued, a Bible, a shirt and two handkerchiefs; then there was room for nothing more.

He tied up the bundle tightly and put it on a chair by his bedside.
"That is not much; they cannot say I take much," he said, looking at it.
He put his knotted stick beside it, his blue tobacco bag and his short pipe, and then inspected his coats.

He had two left--a moth-eaten overcoat and a black alpaca, out at the elbows.