The Oh, Welcome back everyone to 1001 Classic Short Stories and tales. It's Jack London month. And here's

another story from Jack London, this one called Pictures, which relives some impressions

that he gained while spending 10 months on the road as a hobo.

It's an interesting story but a brutal one.

So caution is advised.

Perhaps the greatest charm of tramp life is the absence of monotony. In Hobo land the face of life is

protean, an ever-changing phantasmagoria where the impossible happens and the

unexpected jumps out of the bushes at every turn of the road.

The Hobo never knows what is going to happen the next moment.

Hence, he lives only in the present moment.

He has learned the futility of Telek Endeavor and knows the delight of drifting along with the whimsicalities of chance.

Often I think over my dramp days, and ever I marvel at the swift succession of pictures that flash up in my memory. It matters not where I begin to think. Any day of all the days is a day apart, with a record of swift moving pictures all its own.

For instance, I remember a sunny sky. Swift moving pictures all its own.

For instance, I remember a sunny summer morning in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and immediately

comes to my mind the auspicious beginning of the day, a set-down with maiden ladies and not in their kitchen but in their dining

room with them beside me at the table. We ate eggs out of egg cups. It was the first time I'd ever seen egg cups or heard of egg cups.

I was a bit awkward at first, I'll confess, but I was hungry and unabashed. I mastered the

egg cup and I mastered the eggs in a way that made those two

maiden ladies sit up. Why they ate like a couple of canaries, dabbing with the

one egg each they took and nibbling a tiny wafers of toast. Life was low in their bodies. Their blood

ran thin and they had slept warm all night. I had been out all night, consuming much fuel of

my body to keep warm, beating my way down from a place called

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