My Little Table 



confidant, which allows one to remain seated 

 and rests the muscles of the legs, I can com- 

 mune nightly under my lamp-shade, until a 

 late hour, and keep going the forge of thought 

 wherein the intractable problem is softened 

 and hammered into shape. 



My study-table, the size of a pocket-hand- 

 kerchief, occupied on the right by the ink- 

 stand — a penny bottle — and on the left by the 

 open exercise-book, gives me just the room 

 which I need to wield the pen. I love that 

 little piece of furniture, one of the first ac- 

 quisitions of my early married life. It is 

 easily moved where you wish: in front of 

 the window, when the sky is cloudy; into the 

 discreet light of a corner, when the sun is trou- 

 blesome. In winter, it allows you to come 

 close to the hearth, where a log is blazing. 



Poor little walnut board, I have been faith- 

 ful to you for half a century and more. Ink- 

 stained, cut and scarred with the pen-knife, 

 you lend your support to-day to my prose as 

 you once did to my equations. This variation 

 in employment leaves you indifferent; your 

 patient back extends the same welcome to the 

 formulae of algebra and the formulae of 

 thought. I cannot boast this placidity; I find 

 that the change has not increased my peace 

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