CHAPTER XII 



THE POND 



I LATELY read a rather remarkable gardening book, 

 and the impressions that it has left on my mind are 

 high bamboos and still higher moral principles. The 

 bamboos were photographed, the principles adorned 

 the letterpress. There were little bits of good gar- 

 dening let into the mass of the work, like precious 

 stones set in lead. We were entertained by endless 

 discussions on ethics, and the symposium was sup- 

 ported by an earnest clergyman and a well-meaning 

 but inefficient agnostic. Above them sat the author in 

 his character of Solomon. He spoke the magisterial 

 word and calmed the angry passions of the com- 

 batants. He was always right, and always pompous. 

 He must be a wonderful man, but perhaps lacking 

 enough sense of humour to keep his prodigious 

 intellect sweet. These perfect people make me irre- 

 verent. I long to say wild, improper things before 

 them, that they may be shocked and scared. I long 

 to see them faced with some everyday catastrophe 

 say, a bad egg at breakfast. I would go far to watch 

 this bamboo owner running after his hat in a gale of 

 wind, and see if his ethic stood the strain. I expect 

 his bamboos catch his spirit, and wave with sublime 



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