BEYOND THE REALM OF WEATHER 213 



Ten minutes later we had made harbor in 

 the little house by the shore. The candles 

 were lighted, the fire set ablaze, and as we sat 

 before it cooking chops and toast I said, &quot;No, 

 Jonathan, the open fire is n t any better than 

 the haymow.&quot; 



&quot;But different?&quot; he suggested. 



&quot;Yes, quite different.&quot; 



&quot;And good in its own poor way.&quot; 



He turned his chop. Chops and toast and 

 a blazing fire give forth odors of distracting 

 pleasantness under such circumstances. 



&quot;I think,&quot; I said, &quot;that each gives point 

 to the other.&quot; 



&quot;Are n t you glad I took you for ducks?&quot; 

 he asked. 



I mused, watching my toast. &quot;I suppose,&quot; 

 I said, &quot;no one in his senses would leave a 

 comfortable city house to go and lie out in a 

 marsh at night, in a forty-mile gale, with the 

 mercury at ten, unless he had some other mo 

 tive than the thing itself ducks, or conspir 

 acy, or something. And yet it is the thing 

 itself that is the real reward.&quot; 



&quot;Isn t that true of almost everything?&quot; 

 said Jonathan. 



