I 
A GUST OF WONDER 
HE wonder about wonder is its every- 
whereness. Ubiquity is its sure mark. It 
breaks on you at the time when you could 
least think it could. It is evermore abroad like 
an immortal traveler. It goes as the permitted 
apostles of the Master with neither staff nor 
scrip. It carries provender and perpetual shelter 
for itself. Stars are not farther going nor more 
self-sufficing. 
On a day I was driving in southwest Wisconsin. 
By the month it was June and by the sky it 
was June and by the perfume it was June and 
by the blossoming it was June. No contradic- 
tion assailed the personality of June. We went 
leisurely. Another drove and garrulously wan- 
dered from theme to theme, in the main mean- 
ingless, but every now and then breaking through 
into the neighborhood of the loveliness of poetry. 
If anybody talks enough, he is as certain to 
flash into poetry as a prairie is to flash out into 
flowers. I was left to drift. The infinite was 
what we were driving through and all I had to 
do was to pay the driver. My hands were free. 
While physically I was being hauled, meta- 
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