Peripatetic Meditations 



am not an unfit object for the blessed sun to see. 

 Better still, I am duly thankful that I am com- 

 paratively free from the restraints of those 

 habitations where a speck of dirt is held in as 

 great horror as a crime. Some superlatively 

 particular people, did they know it, are super- 

 latively stupid. Wisdom does not brighten 

 their eyes, as lightning plays upon the moun- 

 tain 's brow. Well, I had rather have the marks 

 of my collie's muddy paws upon me than the 

 reddening of squeezed fingers following the 

 grip of senseless formality. Dust that smarts 

 the eyes, tickles the nostrils and soils the pages 

 of our treasured books is an abomination, but 

 such "dirt" is far removed from the honest 

 earth into which I love to delve and which the 

 while tells a truthful and most fascinating tale. 



It threatens to rain. Just what threatens is 

 not a matter of importance. "It" is a con- 

 venient intangibility upon which we can hang 

 all sorts of theoretical conditions. What is of 

 importance is the fact that the sky is overcast, 

 and the sunlight so dimmed there are no shad- 

 ows. Never was better evidence adduced that 

 May days can be delightful, yet without direct 



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