88 Musings by Camp-Fire and Wayside 



trines of one Galileo, a crazy Italian; and those of 

 a dreamy Dutchman, of whom it is enough to say 

 that he forsook the honest and homely name of his 

 shop-keeping father, and Latinized himself as Coper- 

 nicus! "Copernicus," forsooth! His name was 

 Koppernicht, or in plain English, "Nary-a-copper. " 

 His mother was a "Watzelrode," which shows that 

 she tended geese, or at least lived on an obscure 

 trail. That is the kind of a man whom these mod- 

 ern philosophers are running after. They profess 

 to know more than the peerless Plato, disciple 

 of Socrates, and master of Aristotle, and follow 

 Koppernicht, an impecunious, ignorant, Cracowan 

 goose-herd! No wonder we high-souled Platonians 

 regard their philosophy as mere goose-gabble. 

 They come honestly by it. Now, what does my 

 great Plato say? What did he say to Socrates, his 

 master? He said that the eight spheres were like 

 casks, fitted one within another, and that a great 

 spindle, like a distaff, was thrust through the mid- 

 dle, and on this they revolve; that there is an open- 

 ing, after the manner of Astarte's lips when she is 

 laughing, through each crystalline sphere, by which 

 access is gained from one to another. The outer 

 or eighth sphere is variegated in color, the seventh 

 is brightest, the second and fifth yellow, and the 

 third bright white. They revolve with differing 

 speeds. The distaff, or spindle, is sustained on the 

 knees of Necessity. Each sphere has its siren sit- 

 ting on the outside of her sphere, and all sing in 



