What becomes of it?"
"I heard you say once," remarked the Old Maid to the Minor Poet,
"that 'thoughts are in the air,' that the poet but gathers them as a
child plucks wayside blossoms to shape them into nosegays."
"It was in confidence," replied the Minor Poet. "Please do not let
it get about, or my publisher will use it as an argument for cutting
down my royalties."
"I have always remembered it," answered the Old Maid. "It seemed so
true. A thought suddenly comes to you. I think of them sometimes,
as of little motherless babes creeping into our brains for shelter."
"It is a pretty idea," mused the Minor Poet. "I shall see them in
the twilight: pathetic little round-eyed things of goblin shape,
dimly luminous against the darkening air. Whence come you, little
tender Thought, tapping at my brain? From the lonely forest, where
the peasant mother croons above the cradle while she knits? Thought
of Love and Longing: lies your gallant father with his boyish eyes
unblinking underneath some tropic sun? Thought of Life and Thought
of Death: are you of patrician birth, cradled by some high-born
maiden, pacing slowly some sweet garden? Or did you spring to life
amid the din of loom or factory? Poor little nameless foundlings!
I shall feel myself in future quite a philanthropist, taking them
in, adopting them.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70