This Thursday morning spring was assailing the house with lazy reminders, a ripple of breeze at the window Mr. Hibbs had sternly closed, a muted hammering from the shed where Rob Grimes was mending a chicken coop at great leisure; earlier Reuben had heard the lonesome Sundayish clamor of the meeting-house bell nearly a mile away, warning that Thursday was Lecture Day, when decent citizens take thought for their souls.
"Very well, Reuben." Mr. Hibbs sniffed. "Lines twenty-one and twenty-two, and pray note that you are not to stress the caesura in line twenty-two, seeing there is no break in the thought."
"quid fuit, ut tutas agitaret Daedalus alas,
Icarus immensas...."
"What's the matter? Are you considering, Mr. Cory, whether the caesura be intended by the poet to indicate a pause for daydreaming?"
"Icarus immensas nomine signet aquas."
"You have the quantities correct, and may now construe."
"'Why should Daedalus have——'"
"'Should'? 'Should'? I see no subjunctive, Mr. Cory."
"I was construing freely, sir."
"Why?"