THE ROAD TO MUDDY POND 



the ice less beautiful when I stood on it. 

 Here opaqueness wove sprightly patterns 

 with crystalline purity. The surface was 

 smooth under foot and yet these patterns 

 rose and fell in the ice itself, and it was 

 hard to believe they were not carved in- 

 taglio and then the surface iced over to 

 a level. It was no prettier ice 'than I had 

 crossed on the big pond, but its setting 

 brought out the beauty. 



Ice grown old, after all, is far more 

 beautiful than young ice. Character is 

 built into it. Living has taught it the 

 highest form of art, which is to repeat 

 beauty without sameness. What designs 

 might the makers of floor coverings win 

 from this surface if they would but study 

 it, and how trite and tame in compari- 

 son seem their tiresome interweaving 

 of square and circle and their endless 

 repetition ! 



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