Four fiends who were scorners
Had clutch of the corners.
They tossed her so high
That she stayed in the sky,
And doubts the existence of Boston.
I forget the other nine verses. Michelle, halloa! Put me across!”
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, as he strode through the summer woods. “I hate books which land you in the country of nowhere.” And he thought, smiling, of the famous Eastern tale of the caliph and the philosopher: “Who are you?” said Haroun. “I don’t know.” “Where are you going?” “I don’t know.” “Where are you from?” “I don’t know. I write books; what about is for him that readeth to discern. To know nothing is the Path of Negation by which you attain knowledge of the infinite Nothing.” “Then,” said the caliph, “in the language of El Din Attar, ‘One serious conviction is better than armies of denial: more wholesome is it to believe in Satan than to deny God.’ In order that thou mayest abide on the seat of wisdom for a week and acquire one earthly certainty, thou shalt have the bastinado!” “Where did I read that stuff?” he thought, and went along, humming snatches of song, his own or others, for he scribbled a little, and had some musical touch of the light grace of the song; but “intended no monuments of books.”
The woods soon brought back to him the mood of contentment, which is one of their many mysteries. The most delightful possibilities are those which never occur, and of these the woods are full. The delicate sense of something about to happen began to possess Carington. He went on his way, smiling, and now and then stood still to touch a tree, or notice some unusual giant, or to note some singularity of limb or bole.
An hour or more of sharp walking brought him to the cabin of the Maybrooks. It was closed. He passed around it, and saw no sign of its inhabitants. He knocked and got no reply. Then he said a naughty word, and went and sat down on the edge of the well and reflected. He was more disappointed than he felt willing to admit. By and by he acquired wisdom, and went to the brook, where would have been the grilse if Rose and her attendant had come and gone. Seeing no fish lying in this cool larder, he felt better and went back to the well. There doubt awaited him with the possibility of Dory having gone to the Cliff Camp, which would have made needless Miss Rose’s intended visit. He had been stupid in not anticipating this contingency. At least he would wait awhile.
And now there was a sudden gleam far away among the trees, unseen by this young man who was gazing down into the cool depths of the well. Had he looked that other way this flutter of color in the trampled ox-road would soon have become to him a pink muslin gown. The wearer carried a basket in her right hand, and in the left, swinging it gaily as she walked, a broad straw hat. At the wood skirt she paused to change her burden to the less tired hand,—for she had been of a mind to come alone, and now found her five-pound fish to have gained in weight. As she looked up, she was aware of Mr. Carington seated on the edge of the well, his back toward her. He was singing: