It dawned upon him that there was something profoundly wrong about that.
It was to have been a story of wandering about in the world that is; the story of the happy adventures of a well tempered mind in a well understood scheme of things. But Bobby was beginning to realize that there is not, and there never has been, a world that is; there is only a world that has been and a world that is to be. “New people,” whispered Bobby, and dipped a quill in the ink and made a border of dots round his title. Then suddenly he crossed out those three words “Ups and Downs” and wrote instead, “New Country.”
“That might be the title of any novel that matters,” said Bobby.
He mused deeply. Then he altered the sub-title to “The History of an Explorer.”
He scratched out “Explorer.”
“Involuntary traveller,” said Bobby.
Finally he put back “A Pedestrian Novel” as his sub-title....
He became aware of an intermittent dull tapping, and following the sound discovered a thrush trying to break up a snail on the gravel path. But the gravel path was too fine and soft to give a firm anvil for the beating. “The silly bird ought to find a brick or a potsherd,” said Bobby and reflected. “I suppose all the flower-pots are shut up in the shed....
“I don’t like to see that bird wasting the morning and being disappointed....
“It wouldn’t take a minute....”