He sees the master's acts,
benevolent or malevolent, and wags his tail. But the master's
acts are always inscrutable to him. And so with us._
"_And therefore, brethren, let us take the road with a light
heart. Let us praise the bronze of the leaves and the crash
of the surf while we have eyes to see and ears to hear. An
honest amazement at the unspeakable beauties of the world is
a comely posture for the scholar. Let us all be scholars
under Mother Nature's eye._
"How do you like that?" he asked.
"A little heavy, but very good," I said. "There's nothing in
it about the transcendent mystery of baking bread!"
He looked rather blank.
"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.
I made a valiant effort to summon some of my governessly
recollections of literature.
"I give it up," I said feebly. "Is it Carlyle?"
"That is by Andrew McGill," he said. "One of his cosmic
passages which are now beginning to be reprinted in
schoolbooks. The blighter writes well."
I began to be uneasy lest I should be put through a literary
catechism, so I said nothing, but roused Peg into an amble.
To tell the truth I was more curious to hear the Professor
talk about his own book than about Andrew's.
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