I smiled. "You're spry," I said to him.
"That's nothing," he answered. "I am nearly dead from the heat. But wait till I'm rested. Then I will crease out your wrinkles for you."
There was something about him which reminded me of Savelko, and I wanted to joke with him. But in about five minutes I listened to his words open-mouthed. They were strangely familiar; yet unheard-of, and it seemed to me that my own heart, not he, was singing the joy of the sunny days:
"Look! Is this not a holiday? Is it not paradise? The mountains rise toward the sun, rejoicing, and the woods climb to the summits of the hills, and the little blades of grass under your feet strive winged up toward the light of life. All sing psalms of joy, but you, man, you, master of the earth, why do you sit here, morose?"
"What strange bird is that?" I asked myself. But I said to him, trying to draw him out:
"But what if I am filled with unhappy thoughts?" He pointed to the earth. "What is that?"
"The earth."
"No. Look higher."
"You mean the grass?"
"Higher still."