As the man consumed the bodies of the buck-sardine and the doe-sardine, the two spiritualities of the two fishes walked down the empyrean, and cast two shadows.
When he had gulped down the last mouthful, the two shadows melted into one.
So they found peace at last; and I do not refer to buttered toast. But the queerest part of it is that they were both sprats.
It has turned chilly. No one but myself is left on the river, and the solitary end of the afternoon is good to look at. The thing that you and I want most is a power of expression. When I say you, I mean the sympathetic reader who can enter into the true spirit of loafing: the loafing of the body in the wayward Canadian canoe that does what it likes, and the loafing of the mind that does not take the nauseous trouble to think straight. I want the younger child who is to be born when Art and Music are reconciled again, who will never take aim and yet never miss the mark, who will be quite careless but quite true. That child will know all about the sympathy which exists between one man and one scene in which he finds himself, and may perhaps reveal it to us.
But I am sorry for poor Art. She is a woman, and, though her beauty will not leave her, she desires reconciliation and love.
I am taken with a sudden verse or two. Kindly excuse them:—
O Art, that lives not in the studio,
That has no special love for northern light!
Unto no studies from the nude I owe