Herman the Hermit

There once was a man named Herman. An old man that lived on a hill, he never had visitors and was rudely terse with those audacious enough to be considered as such.

There was a singularly perfect word to describe him: hermit.

Everyone in Cheltenham knew of Herman and also knew of his tale. How, you may ask, did a man who conversed with no one have his tale so widely spread?

Your narrator does not pretend to have all answers at the ready. All I may show is this children’s song, heard in school grounds across the township:

A hermit name Herman who lived on a hill.
Surrounded by books ‘til the shelves they did spill.

Treated his books as bad as his folk.
Pulled out their pages and used them for smoke.

Twas late one night when the books they fought back.
Slithered under his bed and built a big stack.

Built floor, and walls, and ceiling to boot.
Trapped old Herman, and darn him, he knew it.

Let out one wail as the pages descended.
Put Herman the hermit in a tale that’s not ended.

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