Unamuno in Front of My House

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My house had no books, but very soon I knew that if there had been, they would have told me something similar to what the trees that looked at me from the top of the Mountain, in front of my house. I was a poor child, in every sense of the word less in one: the family, who was needy but cheerful, that mirror that was the disheartened trees across the street, and the joy of waking up, and of staying awake, in the mornings. Around were the house, …