said.
"They all call me that, David, down in the village. Ask them who the
Professor is. They will tell you, a vagrant, a lazy fellow with a gift
of talking, a ne'er-do-well with a little learning. Ask Stacy Shunk.
Ask Mr. Pound--wise and good Mr. Pound. He will tell you that ideas
such as mine are a danger to the community, that I speak out of
ignorance and sin. As if in every mountain wind I could not hear a
better sermon than he can give me and find in every passing cloud a
text to ponder over. They don't understand me at all."

The Professor drew his little daughter close to him and regarded me
fixedly, as though to see if I understood.

"Yes, sir," I said. "I will ask them."

At this matter-of-fact reply his mouth twitched humorously. "And
perhaps you will find that they are right," he said. "That's the worst
of it. Even dull minds can generate a certain amount of unpleasant
truth; that's what sets me on edge against them--when they ask me why I
don't carry out some of my fine ideas instead of criticising others."

"Why don't you?" The question was from no desire to drive my host into
a corner, but came from an innocent interest in him and a wish to get
at something concrete.

He took no offence at my presumption, but rose slowly, lifted his arms
above his head, and stretched himself. Unconsciously he answered my
question.

"Had I the last ten years to live over again I would," he said as he
paced slowly up and down the room. "Perhaps I shall yet. Long ago,
when I was home on a little farm with the mountains tumbling down over
it, I used to plan getting out in the world and doing something more
than to earn three meals a day. It is stupid--the way men make meals
the aim of their lives. I wanted something better, but to find it I
had to have the means, and means could only be had by the most
uncongenial work. So here I find myself on a still smaller farm with
the mountains coming down on my very head. It was different with
Rufus."

"Rufus who?" I demanded with the abruptness of an inquisitive youth who
was getting at the facts at last.

The Professor halted by my chair. "My brother Rufus. You see, David,
I taught school because it was easy work and gave me time to think.
Rufus was a blockhead. He never had a real idea of any kind, but he
could work. When he owned a cross-road store he was as proud as though
he had written 'Paradise Lost.' He went to conquer the county town and
did i