“Just ten days.”
“Pretty fine, isn't he?”
“You bet! I wouldn't take all the farms in these United States for him.”
“To be sure. To be sure,” laughed the doctor. He picked up a little volume lying open on the table. “Do you like Omar?” he asked, aimlessly turning the pages.
“Very much. I don't always get the old Persian's meaning exactly. Take this verse,” he reached for the book and turning back a few pages read:
“The moving finger writes; and having writ,
Moves on; nor all your piety nor wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
That sounds pretty but it has something in it that almost scares a fellow—he doesn't know why.”