No, if he
ever found the bigger field of philosophy, it would be after he had
scaled slippery crags and forded great rivers, after he had pushed his
way through brambles and across sharp stones, after he had many times
lost his footing, and had many times stopped to rest, believing he could
go no farther. It was after some such quest that he might perhaps find
his way up into the bigger field of philosophy. But he would not find
Ross there. Ross and his fellows were down in a nice little garden that
had been fixed up for them. That was it: the garden of philosophy,--a
garden made by man, in which there were little artificial lakes and
shrubbery set out in attractive designs. A very nice garden indeed, where
the sun shone and where it was true pretty flowers would grow--but ah,
one did not feel the wind upon one's face down in that sheltered garden
as he believed one would feel it up there on the lonely heights to which
one had climbed alone! And the garden of philosophy--he was smiling at
his fancy, but it interested him--was electric lighted, while up there on
the big wide sweep, one came very close to the stars.
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