I'm sorry that such is the
case, for I'd rather not deal in second-hand judgments if I could
help it. About the most this sonnet can do for me is to make me
wonder what my world is. I suppose that the size of my world is the
measure of myself, and that in my schoolmastering I am simply trying
to enlarge the world of my pupils. I saw a gang-plough the other day
that is drawn by a motor, and that set me to thinking of ploughs in
general and their evolution; and, by tracing the plough backward, I
saw that the original one must have been the forefinger of some
cave-dweller.
When his forefinger got sore, he got a forked stick and used that
instead; then he got a larger one and used both hands; then a still
larger one, and used oxen as the motive power; and then he fitted
handles to it, and other parts till he finally produced a plough.
But the principle has not been changed, and the gang-plough is but a
multifold forefinger. It is great fun to loose the tether of the
mind and let it go racing along, in and out, till it runs to earth
the original plough.
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