COMMUTER'S THANKSGIVING 243 



pole star where he burns or " the Pleiads rising 

 through the mellow shade." 



One cannot live among the Pleiads ; one can- 

 not even see them half of the time ; and one must 

 spend part of one's time in the mill. Yet never 

 to look for the Pleiads, or to know which way to 

 look, is to spend, not part, but all of one's time in 

 the mill. 



The dales for shade, 



The hills for breathing space, 



and life for something other than mere work ! 



The Commuter is bound to see the stars nightly, 

 as he goes down to shut up the hens. He has the 

 whole outdoors in his yard, with the exception of 

 a good fish-pond; but if he has no pond, he has, 

 and always will have, to save him from the round 

 of the mill, a little round of his own those 

 various endless, small, inconvenient home-tasks, 

 known as " chores." To fish is " to be for a space 

 dissolved in the flux of things, to escape the 

 calculable, drop a line into the mysterious realms 

 above or below conscious thought " ; to " chore " 

 is for a space to stem the sweeping tides of time, 

 to outride the storms of fate, to sail serene the sea 

 of life to escape the mill ! 



