“It is all I could find, and I’ve had hard work to get this,” said he. “I went in at a window where lay an open dictionary.—I had no idea that a dictionary was such a very large book.—It was an old one, so I had no trouble in tearing out these few leaves, as the paper was so tender. I took them out of the window and hid them in a safe place and went back for more, but just as I was turning the leaves over to find evolution, some one came up and shut the window, and I had to crawl out through the cracks. Well, I have all the ‘P’s’ and some of the ‘T’s’; we can find theology and poetry.”
“Philosophy, too,” said wise Violet.
“My dear, that is spelled with an ‘f,’” said the kind old wind patronizingly.
“O, no! I am sure you are mistaken. It is ‘p-h-i-l’; look and see if I am not right.”
The wind slowly turned over the leaves of his meagre dictionary, and, sure enough, there it was,—“p-h-i-l-o-s-o-p-h-y.”
“Is it there? What does it say?” questioned the eager flowers.
“Philosophy, the love of, or search after, wisdom,” slowly read the wind.
“Oh!” said the flowers, “is that all it is? Why, we know philosophy.”
“I think the forest trees could lecture on philosophy,” said the wind.