But I am indeed a-eppisodin’ and to resoom.
The entrance hall and the rooms leadin’ out of it are jest as Mr. Scott left ’em, and that made me feel curous as a dog to look round me, and I meditated and eppisoded to extreme lengths, to myself mostly.
The library is a large and handsome room, lined with books, twenty thousand in all. And underneath its deep, big winders runs the river Tweed.
How many times, when he got tired of writin’ down his rushin’ thoughts, did Walter stand and lean up aginst the winder, and look down into the rushin’ river!
I leaned up aginst the side of the winder where he had leaned, and on lookin’ down, I see that the river wuz still a-flowin’ along jest the same. But the eager, active mind wuz—where?
The dead water, with no soul, rushed and flowed on; the rocks couldn’t stop it—no, it made a leap downward and flowed on more free and placider.
And I sez to myself—“Death’s rocky portals is jest the same; after the leap down into the oncertainty—the darkness, it goes on in the Certainty and the Light, fuller and freer than ever.”
I didn’t say anything of these thoughts to my pardner. He wuz a-lookin’ round at one thing and another, and not havin’ the deep feelin’s that I had, as I could see.
But Al Faizi wuz a-lookin’ down into the water or at the beautiful landscape from another winder. And I’ll bet if I’d atted him about it his idees would have been congenial to mine and inspirin’. I jedged so from the looks of his liniment.
But I knew he didn’t care about talkin’ much, so I restrained my tongue.