let me see how you can
shoot.' So I knocked them around, and thought I was doing pretty
well, when he said, 'That's all right; I'll play you left-handed.'
It hurt my pride, but I played him. We banked for the shot and he
won it. Then he commenced to play, and I commenced to chalk my cue
to get ready to play, and he went on playing, and I went on chalking
my cue; and he played and I chalked all through that game. When he
had run his string out I said:

"That's wonderful! perfectly wonderful! If you can play that way
left-handed what could you do right-handed?'

"'Couldn't do anything,' he said. 'I'm a left-handed man.'"

How it delighted them! I think it was the last speech of any sort he
made that season. A week or two later he went to Dublin, New Hampshire,
for the summer--this time to the Upton House, which had been engaged a
year before, the Copley Greene place being now occupied by its owner.

CCXLVI. THE SECOND SUMMER AT DUBLIN

The Upton House stands on the edge of a beautiful beech forest some
two or three miles from Dublin, just under Monadnock--a good way up the
slope. It is a handsome, roomy frame-house, and had a long colonnaded
veranda overlooking one of the most beautiful landscape visions on the
planet: lake, forest, hill, and a far range of blue mountains--all the
handiwork of God is there. I had seen these things in paintings, but
I had not dreamed that such a view really existed. The immediate
foreground was a grassy slope, with ancient, blooming apple-trees; and
just at the right hand Monadnock rose, superb and lofty, sloping down to
the panorama below that stretched away, taking on an ever deeper blue,
until it reached that remote range on which the sky rested and the world
seemed to end. It was a masterpiece of the Greater Mind, and of the
highest order, perhaps, for it had in it nothing of the touch of man. A
church spire glinted here and there, but there was never a bit of field,
or stone wall, or cultivated land. It was lonely; it was unfriendly; it
cared nothing whatever for humankind; it was as if God, after creating
all the world, had wrought His masterwork here, and had been so
engrossed with the beauty of it that He had forgotten to give it a soul.
In a sense this was true, for He had not made the place suitable for the
habitation of men. It lacked the human touch; the human interest, and I
could never quite believe in its reality.

The tim