The Rambles of an Idler 



tion of truth, possessed me. It is often so, and 

 we place too high a value on such idle thinking. 

 It ever poses as something it is not. 



The crow swerved from the straight line of 

 its flight and circled over the water; the wren 

 never ceased its singing. Why? If we are 

 moved continually to ask questions, a very little 

 will shut from view the world as a whole, and 

 if long puzzled by a minor detail, what of 

 Earth's entirety? The naturalist goes forth in 

 confidence to explain away obscurities, to let 

 light into the dark places, to bring all things 

 easily within our grasp. Does he? Few in- 

 deed are the interpretations to which the whole 

 world assents. Who has proved that the wren 

 is singing for its own entertainment? Why is 

 the crow circling above the flooded meadow? 

 Is not my "breakfast" theory all moonshine? 

 A library is ten thousand assertions and twice 

 ten thousand contradictions. 



We must not take Nature or our views of it 

 too seriously. They are excellent in their 

 proper place and a source of sorrow out of it. 

 To interpret what we see is a mighty task, un- 

 der which Titanic shoulders bend, but to 

 weave a few fancies fits the passing day and 



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