That's more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on
my tombstone."
"The art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the
art of making sonnets," said Redbeard. "And then your hot
biscuits--they might be counted as shorter lyrics, I
suppose--triolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or
a doxology, if you prefer it."
"Yeast is yeast, and West is West," I said, and was quite
surprised at my own cleverness. I hadn't made a remark like
that to Andrew in five years.
"I see you are acquainted with Kipling," he said.
"Oh, yes, every governess is."
"Where and whom did you govern?"
"I was in New York, with the family of a wealthy stockbroker.
There were three children. I used to take them walking in
Central Park."
"Did you ever go to Brooklyn?" he asked abruptly.
"Never," I replied.
"Ah!" he said. "That's just the trouble. New York is
Babylon; Brooklyn is the true Holy City. New York is the city
of envy, office work, and hustle; Brooklyn is the region of
homes and happiness. It is extraordinary: poor, harassed New
Yorkers presume to look down on low-lying, home-loving
Brooklyn, when as a matter of fact it is the precious jewel
their souls are thirsting for and they never know it.
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