for a little time. He had little desire for any introspec-
tive quarryings. To feel so well was sufficient in itself.
Why should thought be so apparent to us, so insistent?
We do not know we have digestive or circulatory organs
until these go out of order, and then the knowledge tor-
ments us. Should not the labours of a healthy brain be
equally subterranean and equally competent? Why have
we to think aloud and travel laboriously from syllogism
to ergo, chary of our conclusions and distrustful of our
premises? Thought, as we know it, is a disease and no
more. The healthy mentality should register its convic-
tions and not its labours. Our ears should not hear the
clamour of its doubts nor be forced to listen to the pro
and con wherewith we are eternally badgered and per-
plexed.

The road was winding like a ribbon in and out of the
mountains. On either side there were hedges and bushes,
--little, stiff trees which held their foliage in their hands
and dared the winds snatch a leaf from that grip. The
hills were swelling and sinking, folding and soaring on
every view. Now the silence was startled by the falling
tinkle of a stream. Far away a cow lowed, a long, deep
monotone, or a goat's call trembled from nowhere to no-
where. But mostly there was a silence which buzzed
with a multitude of small winged life. Going up the
hills the Philosopher bent forward to the gradient,
stamping vigorously as he trod, almost snorting like a
bull in the pride of successful energy. Coming down the
slope he braced back and let his legs loose to do as they