which they followed with tingling shanks and hearts full of achievement.
A shady lane by the now stripling Darby brought them to a quiet pool under leaning willows, and a silver gush of water over a small dam beneath which a bronze Venus bathes herself thoughtfully. Madrigal wore the face of one entering into joy rarely vouchsafed to battered poets. Doggerel, in his paltry way, was likewise of blithe cheer. Through a gap in the hedge they scaled a knoll and reached their haven. And here they found what virtuous walkers have ever found at the end of an innocent journey—a bath, a beer, and a blessing.
OUR OLD DESK
We see that there has been a fire at a second-hand furniture warehouse on Arch street. We think we can offer an explanation for the blaze. Our old desk was there.
That desk was always a hoodoo. Last autumn, when we gave up commuting and moved into town, we had to get rid of some of our goods in order to squeeze ourselves into an apartment. The very first thing we parted with was our old desk. We did not tell genial Mr. P., the dealer in second-hand furniture, that the piece was a Jonah, for we were afraid it would knock fifty cents or so off his offer, but now we feel rather shamefaced for not having warned him.
