We might
have said "drenching downpour of silver Long Island rain," or
something of that sort, and thus got several words nearer our
necessary total of 1100. But we scorn, even when writing against
time, to take petty advantages. Let us be brief, crisp, packed with
thought. Let it stand as drench, while you admire our proud
conscience.)
Eleven hundred words--what a lot could be said in 1100 words! We
stood at the front door of the baggage car (there is an odd irony in
this: the leading editorial writer, one of the most implacable of
our taskmasters, is spending the summer at Sea Cliff, and he gets
the last empty seat left in the smoker. So we, getting on at
Salamis, have to stand in the baggage car) watching the engine rock
and roar along the rails, while the rain sheeted the level green
fields. It is very agreeable to ride on a train in the rain. We have
never known just why, but it conduces to thought. The clear trickles
of water are drawn slantwise across the window panes, and one
watches, absently, the curious behaviour of the drops. They hang
bulging and pendulous, in one spot for some seconds. Then, as they
swell, suddenly they break loose and zigzag swiftly down the pane,
following the slippery pathway that previous drops have made. It is
like a little puzzle game where you manoeuvre a weighted capsule
among pegs toward a narrow opening. "Pigs in clover," they sometimes
call it, but who knows why? The conduct of raindrops on a
smoking-car window is capricious and odd, but we must pass on.
Pages:
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116