I meant to have another look at that
card of his with the poem on it. And there I found a funny,
battered little notebook, evidently forgotten. On the cover
was written, in ink, "Thoughts on the Present Discontents."
That title seemed vaguely familiar. I seemed to recall
something of the kind from my school days--more than twenty
years ago, goodness me! Of course if I had been honourable I
wouldn't have looked into it. But in a kind of quibbling
self-justification I recalled that I had bought Parnassus and
all it contained, "lock, stock, barrel and bung" as Andrew
used to say. And so....
The notebook was full of little jottings, written in pencil in
the Professor's small, precise hand. The words were rubbed
and soiled, but plainly legible. I read this:
_I don't suppose Bock or Peg get lonely, but by the bones of
Ben Gunn, I do. Seems silly when Herrick and Hans Andersen
and Tennyson and Thoreau and a whole wagonload of other good
fellows are riding at my back. I can hear them all talking as
we trundle along. But books aren't a __substantial__ world after
all, and every now and then we get hungry for some closer,
more human relationships. I've been totally alone now for
eight years--except for Runt, and he might be dead and never
say so.
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