Well, we say, this is life. We laugh, applaud, talk
together, and think about ourselves. And one by one we slip away, no
wiser than before.
"We are like the bees, who work from dawn till dark, gathering honey in
the fields and in the woods. But we are not as wise as the bees, for
each one grasps what he can, and cries, 'this is mine.' Then seeing
that it is of no use to him, he adds, 'What will you give me for it?'"
And he began to think of the past. It seemed to him that he was in
school again. It was spring; and the children came romping into the
schoolroom, their arms full of books and flowers. Summer passed; he
saw Anna Barly crying by the roadside, under the gray sky. He heard
himself saying to Mrs. Grumble: "Yes, that's right, stop up your
ears . . ." And he saw himself walking toward Milford in the
moonlight, under the falling leaves. "Who, now," he thought, "will
drive me out of doors because my room is in disorder, or burn, when I
am away, the scraps of paper on which I have scribbled my memoranda?"
He bowed his head.
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