He seems to understand me,
and I think they could.
Possibly it is just the tension of town life. I know that I seem to
get keyed up as soon as I come into the town. There are so many
things here, and many of them are so artificial that I seem unable to
relax as I do out there where there are just frogs, and moon, and
chickens, and cows. When I am here I seem to have a sort of craze
for things. The shop-windows are full of things, and I seem to want
all of them. I know I have no use for them, and yet I get them. My
neighbor Brown bought a percolator, and within a week I had one. I
had gone on for years without a percolator, not even knowing about
such a thing, but no sooner had Brown bought one than every sound I
heard seemed to be inquiring: "What is home without a percolator?"
So I go on accumulating things, and my den is a veritable medley of
things. They don't make me any happier, and they are a great bother.
There are fifty-seven things right here in my den, and I don't need
more than six or seven of them. There are twenty-two pictures, large
and small, in this room, but I couldn't have named five of them had I
not just counted them.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101