ught the man, and not the man the office. Lest we forget, everything
has been written down so that a wayfaring man, though a fool, need not
err therein,--baking-powder and coffee and a dozen eggs, and last and
least, and under no circumstances to be forgotten, a cake of condensed
yeast. These things weigh upon my spirits. The thought of that little
yeastcake shuts out any disinterested view of the store. It is nothing
to me but a prosaic collection of the necessaries of life. I am
uncheered by any sense of romantic adventure.

Not so with my Philosopher. He is in the rosy dawn of expectation. The
doors are opened, and he enters into an enchanted country. His eyes grow
large as he looks about him. He sees visions of the Good, the True, and
the Beautiful in all their bewildering, concrete variety. They are in
barrels and boxes and paper bundles. They rise toward the sky in shelves
that reach at last the height of the gloriously unattainable. He walks
through the vales of Arcady, among pickles and cheeses. He lifts up his
eyes wonderingly to snowy Olympus crowned with Pillsbury's Best. He
discovers a magic fountain, not spurting up as if it were but for a
moment, but issuing forth with the mysterious slowness that befits the
liquefactions of the earlier world. "What is that?" he asks, and I can
hardly frame the prosaic word "Molasses."

"Molasses!" he cries, gurgling with content; "what a pretty word!" I
hadn't thought about it, but it is a pretty word, and it has come
straight down from the Greek word for honey.

He discovers works of art. Surprising pictures, glowing in color, are on
the walls. These are cherubs rioting in health, smiling old men,
benignant matrons, radiant maidens, all feasting on nectar and ambrosia.
Here and there is a pale ascetic, with a look of agony on his emaciated
face.

"What makes that man feel so bad?" asks my Philosopher, anxious to
extract a story from the picture. It seems like an inadequate
explanation to say that he is only a martyr to his own folly in not
getting the right kind of breakfast food.

For one thing, my Philosopher has a great physical advantage over me
when it comes to seeing things. His eyes are only two feet ten inches
from the ground, while mine are some five feet ten. Three feet do not
count for much when we are considering astronomical distances, but they
make a great difference in the way things seem. There is a difference in
the horizon line, and the realm of my