"
"There is a time for everything," agreed the Philosopher. "With the
lover, penning poetry to the wondrous red and white upon his
mistress' cheek, we do not discuss the subject of pigment in the
blood, its cause and probable duration. Nevertheless, the subject
is interesting."
"We men and women," continued the Minor Poet, "we are Nature's
favourites, her hope, for whom she has made sacrifice, putting aside
so many of her own convictions, telling herself she is old-
fashioned. She has let us go from her to the strange school where
they laugh at all her notions. We have learnt new, strange ideas
that bewilder the good dame. Yet, returning home it is curious to
notice how little, in the few essential things of life, we differ
from her other children, who have never wandered from her side. Our
vocabulary has been extended and elaborated, yet face to face with
the realities of existence it is unavailing. Clasping the living,
standing beside the dead, our language still is but a cry. Our
wants have grown more complicated; the ten-course banquet, with all
that it involves, has substituted itself for the handful of fruits
and nuts gathered without labour; the stalled ox and a world of
trouble for the dinner of herbs and leisure therewith.
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