(A lot he cares.) But I decline to have him blundering about in front of me when I am painting, or throwing stones in the water when I am fishing, or sitting third with my wife and me. And I laugh at him. For I know that in whatever I do, I am achieving immortality—even when I write—not the immortality of my miserable name, but the immortality of my doings and words, each least one of which has its influence now and for ever. As the splash of my cocked dun shall be felt in Orion and further and further than that, till Orion ceases to be and afterwards and afterwards, so my lightest good-morning has within it the welfare or misery of men to come. And this is said humbly and not otherwise. Let my good mornings therefore be as good as I can make them and my good nights and all that lies between.
But though I dismiss from my consideration the General Terminator of Pleasant Experiences, I cannot look with equal contempt upon the day of my departure from this place. The first is an uncertain certainty, incalculable, foolishness to brood upon.
But the boxes are packed.
And now it is too dark for any more fishing. Let us reel up for the year—Someone is waiting for me. There, above Ottley Down, is the glow
