liked to know him, and should have found him congenial, if I had been mature enough, and could have got below the protective crust which naturally grows over a man whose ways of life and thought are different from those of all the people about him. I have little question that when he was out of the sight of the world he was accustomed to sit as I do to-day, and look and look and dream.
One thing he did not dream of,—that a boy to whom he had never spoken would be thinking of him forty years after he had taken his last ramble and snared his last grouse.
"An idler," said his busier neighbors, though he earned his own living and paid his own scot.
"A misspent life," said the clergy, though he harmed no one.
But who can tell? "Who knoweth the interpretation of a thing?" Perhaps his, also, was—for him—a good philosophy. As one of the ancients said, "A man's mind is wont to tell him more than seven men that sit upon a tower." If we are not born alike, why should we be bound to live alike? "A
