262 AT THE SIGN OF THE STOCK YARD INN 



myself to the occult influences of the hour and 

 place, sink into that "comfy" corner chair, and 

 drift without compass or rudder into the circling 

 seas of introspection. Spirits of a day lang syne 

 are surely hovering round about. Mystic voices from 

 across wide waters seem to speak. The past rises 

 even as a dream, from which I awake in boy-land. 



