Think! I've Got Enough To Do, And

He Was A Very Young Boy; Quite A Little Child. His Hair Still Hung In Curls About His Face, And His Eyes Were Very Bright; But Their Light Was Of Heaven, Not Earth.

A Blight Had Fallen On The Trees And Shrubs; And The Wind, At Length Beginning To Break The Unnatural Stillness That Had Prevailed All Day, Sighed Heavily From Time To Time, As Though Foretelling In Grief The Ravages Of The Coming Storm. The Bat Skimmed In Fantastic Flights Through The Heavy Air, And The Ground Was Alive With Crawling Things, Whose Instinct Brought Them Forth To Swell And Fatten In The Rain.

To See The Butcher Slap The Steak Before He Laid It On The Block, And Give His Knife A Sharpening, Was To Forget Breakfast Instantly. It Was Agreeable Too - It Really Was - To See Him Cut It Off So Smooth And Juicy. There Was Nothing Savage In The Act, Although The Knife Was Large And Keen; It Was A Piece Of Art, High Art; There Was Delicacy Of Touch, Clearness Of Tone, Skilful Handling Of The Subject, Fine Shading. It Was The Triumph Of Mind Over Matter; Quite.

An Idea, Like A Ghost, Must Be Spoken To A Little Before It Will Explain Itself.

You Are Always Training Yourself To Be, Mind And Body, As Clear As Crystal, And You Always Are, And Never Change; Whereas I Am A Muddy, Solitary, Moping Weed.