"I don't take you for a man who has read very much of it. But it's the
greatest thing ever written."

"It's out of date, Bill."

"Yes, to those who don't think. Why, there's more wisdom in it than in
all other books put together. I don't care anything about creed, or what
one man or another may believe; I don't care how or why it was
written--I brush aside the oaths that have been sworn on it, and the
dying lips that have kissed it; I shut my eyes to everything but the
fact that it is the greatest opera, the greatest poem, the greatest
tragedy ever written."

"If I could talk that way I'd go out and preach about it, Bill."

"Not with my record behind you, old fellow."

"But why should a man that believes as you do have a record to hold him
down?"

"There you've got me. That's what I'd like to know. But when a man has
learned to understand himself, then all things may become clear. We
sometimes say that it was not natural for a man to do a certain thing.
The fact is, it's natural for a man to do almost anything that he can
do."

"This is good Sunday mornin' talk, all right, Bill. But I've got to go
after my girl. She's got lots of sense, horse sense and flap-doodle
sense all mixed up. She's got more flap-doodle sense than I have; she
reads books, and not long ago she give me a piece of poetry that she'd
cut out of a newspaper. I said, 'Read her off and take her back.' And
she did. Well, I'm off."

Milford hailed a man who drove up in a buggy, gave ten cents for a
Sunday newspaper, and sat on the veranda to read it. The wind blew a
sheet out into the yard. He started after it, but halted, looking at a
man who was crossing the field where the oats had been reaped, striding
with basket and rod toward the lake. Milford left the paper to the wind.
He hastened to the woods between the oat field and the lake and waited
for the man, leaning musingly against a tree. The man got over the fence
and came along the path. Milford stepped out.

"Good-morning, Mr. Dorsey."

"Why, helloa. How's everything?"

"All right, I hope. Are you done with that horse?"

"Oh, that horse. Yes, I'm about done with him."

"Hold on. I want him."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember the last time we met I--well, we'll say, I let you have a
horse."

"You mean we fought over yonder in the grove."

"That's what I mean."

"Well, what about it?"

"We are going to fight over here in this grove."

"Why, I thought you had enough?"

"