Friday, July 18, 2014


Said the traveller,

 "Suppose I light this match, and smoke 'my pipe, shake out the dottle here in the grass - the grass might catch fire, for it is dry like tinder; and while I snatch out the flames front, they might evade and run behind me, and seize upon bush of poison oak; before I could reach it, that would have blazed up; over the bush I see a pine tree hung with moss; that too would fly in fire upon the instant to its topmost bough; and the flame that long torch - how would that trade wind -take and brand that through the inflammable forest! I hear this dell roar in a lament with the joint voice of wind and fire, I see myself gallop my soul, and the flying conflagration chase and outflank through the hills; I see this pleasant forest burn for days, and cattle roasted, and the springs dried up, and the farmer ruin and his children cast upon the world. What a world hangs in this moment!"

 With that he struck the match and it missed fire.

 "Thank God!" said the traveller, and put his pipe in his pod.

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