"Yes. One can't explain these dislikes. Your uncle reasons well and has a clear logical mind, but he has neither creative nor receptive imagination."
"Receptive?" asked John.
"Yes, that is why he has none of your aunt's joy in poetry. When I read to her Wordsworth's 'Brougham Castle,' he said that he had never heard more silly nonsense."
"I remember it was that wonderful verse about the 'longing of the shield.'"
"Yes—I forgot you were there. Verse like that is a good test of a person's capacity to feel poetry—that kind, I mean."
"I hear Uncle Jim's horse."
"Yes. I can't see, John, why a man should want to have a horse sent to meet him instead of a comfortable wagon,"—and for emphasis, as usual with Rivers, the rocking-chair was swinging to the limits of its arc of safe motion.
The Squire dismounted and came up the steps with "Good-evening, Rivers,"—and to John, "I have good news for you—but order my supper at once, then we will talk." He was in his boyish mood of gaiety. "How far have you travelled on that rocker, Rivers?"
"Now, Squire—now, really—" It was a favourite subject of chaff.
"Why not have rocking-chairs in church, Mark? Think what a patient congregation you would have! Come, John, I am hungry." He fled laughing.