and the M.
E. steeple hain't glorious in aspect. But truly Love is the greatest
sculptor and gilder in the world, and handles his brush in the most
marvellous way. Under his magic touch the humblest cottage walls glows
brighter than any palace. We had turned our footsteps toward home
sweet home, and a light from above gilt them sacred precincts, and my
own heart sung as glad a tune as Josiah's, though I tried to sing it
as much as I could in the key of common sense.

Well, we found that Berlin wuz a big, beautiful clean city. It is the
capital of Prussia and the German empire, which we all know is divided
up into little kingdoms, some as the Sylvester Bobbett farm is divided
up, but kinder lookin' up to Sylvester as the head on't. The old part
of the city hain't so remarkable attractive, but the new part is
beautiful in its buildings and streets. And somehow the passersby look
cleaner and better off than in most cities. We didn't see a blind
beggar man led by a dog or a ragged female beggin' for alms whilst we
wuz there, which is more than our cities at home can boast of.

But in spite of all this, I spoze there is a good deal of cuttin' up
and behavin' there.

And I don't spoze that the name of the river that runs through it has
anything to do with that, though Josiah thought it did. He said: "You
couldn't expect many morals or much stiddy behavior round a river
Spree."

But I don't spoze the name made a mite of difference. The water seemed
to run along as smooth and placid as Dove Creek, that bathes the
streets of Loontown at home. Indeed, the waters of the Spree runs
along real slow and quiet. And I spoze the inhabitants there are about
on a equality with the dwellers in other cities in the old and new
world. Human nater is a good deal the same wherever you find it. And
I've always said that if I wanted to write a heart-searchin',
heart-meltin' tragedy, I had just as soon turn away from the big
cities and go into some lonesome hamlet of New England, into some big
faded farmhouse standin' by a dark weed-bordered sluggish creek,
shaded by tall pollard willers. And there, behind the scraggly lilocks
and cinnamon roses, and closed blinds of solid wood, with a little
heart-shaped hole in the centre that casts strange shadders on the
clean painted floor within, there I would find my tragedy material.

Mebby in some tall, scrawny woman's form, clad in brown calico, with
scanty gray hair drawed tightly back from a pale