a god. The same was carved of grey stone and wore a propitious look and was named, as the old man mumbled, The God of Rainy Cheerfulness.
Now it may be that long confinement to the house affects adversely the liver, or these things may be of the soul, but certain it is that on a rainy day her spirits so far descended that those cheerful creatures came within sight of the Pit, and, having tried cigarettes to no good end, she bethought her of Moleshill Street and the mumbling man.
He brought the grey idol forth and mumbled of guarantees, although he put nothing on paper, and she paid him there and then his preposterous price and took the idol away.
And on the next wet day that there ever was she prayed to the grey-stone idol that she had bought, the God of Rainy Cheerfulness (who knows with what ceremony or what lack of it?), and so brought down on her in Leafy Green Street, in the preposterous house at the corner, that doom of which all men speak.
The Mist1
The mist said unto the mist: “Let us go up into the Downs.” And the mist came up weeping.
And the mist went into the high places and the hollows.
And clumps of trees in the distance stood ghostly in the haze.
But I went to a prophet, one who loved the Downs, and I said to him: “Why does the mist come up weeping into the Downs when it goes into the high places and the hollows?”
And he answered: “The mist is the company of a multitude of souls who never saw the Downs, and now are dead. Therefore they come up weeping into the Downs, who are dead and never saw them.”
Furrow-Maker
He was all in black, but his friend was dressed in brown, members of two old families.
“Is there any change in the way you build your houses?” said he in black.
“No change,” said the other. “And you?”
“We change not,” he said.
A man went by in the distance riding a bicycle.
“He is always changing,” said the one in black, “of late almost every century. He is uneasy. Always changing.”
“He changes the way he builds his house, does he not?” said the brown one.
“So my family say,” said the other. “They say he has changed of late.”
“They say he takes much to cities?” the brown one said.
“My cousin who lives in belfries tells me so,” said the black one. “He says he is much in cities.”
“And there he grows lean?” said the brown one.
“Yes, he grows lean.”
“Is it true what they say?” said the brown one.
“Caw,” said the black one.
“Is it true that he cannot live many centuries?”
“No, no,” said the black one. “Furrow-maker will not die. We must not lose furrow-maker. He has been foolish of late, he has played with smoke and is sick. His engines have wearied him and his cities are evil. Yes, he is very sick. But in a few centuries he will forget his folly and we shall not lose furrow-maker. Time out of mind he has delved and my family have got their food from the raw earth behind him. He will not die.”
“But they say, do they not?” said the brown one, “his cities are noisome, and that he grows sick in them and can run no longer, and that it is with him as it is with us when we grow too many, and the grass has the bitter taste in the rainy season, and our young grow bloated and die.”
“Who says it?” replied the black one.
“Pigeon,” the brown one answered. “He came back all dirty. And Hare went down to the edge of the cities once. He says it too. Man was too sick to chase him. He thinks that Man will die, and his wicked friend Dog with him. Dog, he will die. That nasty fellow Dog. He will die too, the dirty fellow!”
“Pigeon and Hare!” said the black one. “We shall not lose furrow-maker.”
“Who told you he will not die?” his brown friend said.
“Who told me!” the black one said. “My family and his have understood each other times out of mind. We know what follies will kill each other and what each may survive, and I say that furrow-maker will not die.”
“He will die,” said the brown one.
“Caw,” said the other.
And Man said in his heart: “Just one invention more. There is something I want to do with petrol yet, and then I will give it all up and go back to the woods.”
Lobster Salad
I was climbing round the perilous outside of the Palace of Colquonhombros. So far below me that in the tranquil twilight and clear air of those lands I could only barely see them lay the craggy tops of the mountains.
It was along no battlements or terrace edge I was climbing, but on the sheer face of the wall itself, getting what foothold I could where the boulders joined.
Had my feet been bare I was done, but though I was in my nightshirt I had on stout leather boots, and their edges somehow held in those narrow cracks. My fingers and wrists were aching.
Had it been possible to stop for a moment I might have been lured to give a second look at the fearful peaks of the mountains down there in the twilight, and this must have been fatal.
That the thing was all a dream is beside the point. We have fallen in dreams before, but it is well known that if in one of those falls you ever hit the ground—you die: I had looked at those menacing mountaintops and knew well that such a fall as the one I feared must have such a termination. Then I went on.
It is strange what different sensations there can be in different boulders—every one gleaming with the same white light and every one chosen to match the rest by minions
