For a long period there had been nothing in my note-book but maltese crosses and items pertaining to the weather and to my daily tasks. One morning it rained so hard that I was obliged to postpone my walk to town until afternoon. I made the journey in the usual time, secured the customary number of returned manuscripts, and bought stamps to send them out again. I thought, as I turned away, that the pursuit of literature was little more than sending out manuscripts to get money to buy stamps to send out manuscripts to get money to buy stamps to send out manuscripts to get money to buy stamps to—but I forbear. My meditations ran on like this for three pages or more, and the end was like the beginning, so what’s the use?
As I approached the station, I saw several of my fellow-townsmen headed for the north-east. They had a determined, yet pleasantly excited air which interested me, and I went back to make inquiries of the postmaster.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“Hey?”
“I asked where they were going.”
“Who?”
I inclined my head toward the company on the far horizon. I could not incline it much, for it was heavy, being full of books.
“Oh,” said the postmaster. “Them. Over to Porcupine Hill.”
“Porcupine Hill!” I repeated in astonishment. “Where is it?”
“Follow your nose,” he replied, somewhat brusquely, slamming down the window in a way which indicated that the interview was ended.