And I said, "Are we all here?"
And she said, "Not all."
And I said, "The absent are always in the wrong."
And she said, "I have heard that in French."
And I said, "Is not that impertinent?"
And she said, "No."
And a great Light fell across her face, as though a palm had smitten
it, and the name of the palm was Hand, and its fruits were fingers
five.
And again I addressed myself in terms of familiarity to the
Ever-lasting, and I planted a book upon the clouds, where eight
children lay prone with bees flying about their childish bonnets.
And there came a knock at my door.
"Eight o'clock!" said One. "Arise!"
"Nay," I answered; "it cannot be."
"But the water is hot within the can, and the table will be spread for
them that break their fast."
"So be it. I rise." And behold it was a dream!
CHAPTER III.
Far away the mother of the little nigger stood churning. Where is
the mother of the little black nigger? She is churning slowly in the
garden. But cannot the aunt of the good gardener churn herself? No;
for she is in the orchard, plucking the apples, peaches, apricots,
pears (_Birnen_), to give to the butler's grandmother.
And there came Life and The Ideal walking hand in hand.
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