d the Radiant Young Radical, democratically
shocked at sight of me turning city folk out of my field. And for two
weeks she hated me with a deathless hatred. I sought her out and
explained. I explained at length. I told the story of the poppy as
Maeterlinck has told the life of the bee. I treated the question
biologically, psychologically, and sociologically, I discussed it
ethically and aesthetically. I grew warm over it, and impassioned; and
when I had done, she professed conversion, but in my heart of hearts I
knew it to be compassion. I fled to other friends for consolation. I
retold the story of the poppy. They did not appear supremely interested.
I grew excited. They were surprised and pained. They looked at me
curiously. "It ill-befits your dignity to squabble over poppies," they
said. "It is unbecoming."

I fled away to yet other friends. I sought vindication. The thing had
become vital, and I needs must put myself right. I felt called upon to
explain, though well knowing that he who explains is lost. I told the
story of the poppy over again. I went into the minutest details. I
added to it, and expanded. I talked myself hoarse, and when I could talk
no more they looked bored. Also, they said insipid things, and soothful
things, and things concerning other things, and not at all to the point.
I was consumed with anger, and there and then I renounced them all.

At the bungalow I lie in wait for chance visitors. Craftily I broach the
subject, watching their faces closely the while to detect first signs of
disapprobation, whereupon I empty long-stored vials of wrath upon their
heads. I wrangle for hours with whosoever does not say I am right. I am
become like Guy de Maupassant's old man who picked up a piece of string.
I am incessantly explaining, and nobody will understand. I have become
more brusque in my treatment of the predatory city folk. No longer do I
take delight in their disburdenment, for it has become an onerous duty, a
wearisome and distasteful task. My friends look askance and murmur
pityingly on the side when we meet in the city. They rarely come to see
me now. They are afraid. I am an embittered and disappointed man, and
all the light seems to have gone out of my life and into my blazing
field. So one pays for things.

PIEDMONT, CALIFORNIA.
_April_ 1902.

THE SHRINKAGE OF THE PLANET

What a tremendous affair it was, the world of Homer, with its
indetermina