Then you go to bed, and you wake in the
morning with your mind made up. Hence the phrase, "I will sleep on it." It
is this freshness of the vision, this faculty of passive illumination, that
Wordsworth had in mind when he wrote:
Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?
And yet I cannot quite get rid of my fancy that the golf ball does enjoy
the game.
ON A PRISONER OF WAR
There are still a few apples on the topmost branches of the trees in the
orchard. They are there because David, the labourer, who used to come and
lend us a hand in his odd hours--chiefly when the moon was up--is no longer
available. You may remember how David opened his heart to me about
enlisting when he stood on the ladder picking the pears last year. He did
not like to go and he did not like to stay. All the other chaps had gone,
and he didn't feel comfortable like in being left behind, but there was his
mother and his wife and his Aunt Jane, and not a man to do a hand's turn
for 'em or to dig their gardens if he went.
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