He went
into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be
permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began.
into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be
permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began.
Kipling - Poems
"He won't be
fit for work for another three months. No; it isn't insanity or anything
like it. It's only complete loss of control over the speech and memory.
I fancy it will keep the Blastoderm quiet, though. "
Two days later, the Blastoderm found his tongue again. The first
question he asked was: "What was it? " The Doctor enlightened him.
"But I can't understand it! " said the Blastoderm; "I'm quite sane; but I
can't be sure of my mind, it seems--my OWN memory--can I? "
"Go up into the Hills for three months, and don't think about it," said
the Doctor.
"But I can't understand it," repeated the Blastoderm. "It was my OWN
mind and memory. "
"I can't help it," said the Doctor; "there are a good many things you
can't understand; and, by the time you have put in my length of service,
you'll know exactly how much a man dare call his own in this world. "
The stroke cowed the Blastoderm. He could not understand it.
He went
into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be
permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began.
This gave him a wholesome feeling of mistrust. The legitimate
explanation, that he had been overworking himself, failed to satisfy
him. Something had wiped his lips of speech, as a mother wipes the milky
lips of her child, and he was afraid--horribly afraid.
So the Club had rest when he returned; and if ever you come across
Aurelian McGoggin laying down the law on things Human--he doesn't seem
to know as much as he used to about things Divine--put your forefinger
on your lip for a moment, and see what happens.
Don't blame me if he throws a glass at your head!
A GERM DESTROYER.
Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods,
When great Jove nods;
But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes.
As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of State
in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you.
This tale is a justifiable exception.
Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy; and
each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary,
who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate looks
after the Indian Empire because it is so big and so helpless.
There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent Private
Secretary--a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid passion for
work. This Secretary was called Wonder--John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy
possessed no name--nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds
of the alphabet after them. He said, in confidence, that he was the
electro-plated figurehead of a golden administration, and he watched
in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's attempts to draw matters which were
entirely outside his province into his own hands.
fit for work for another three months. No; it isn't insanity or anything
like it. It's only complete loss of control over the speech and memory.
I fancy it will keep the Blastoderm quiet, though. "
Two days later, the Blastoderm found his tongue again. The first
question he asked was: "What was it? " The Doctor enlightened him.
"But I can't understand it! " said the Blastoderm; "I'm quite sane; but I
can't be sure of my mind, it seems--my OWN memory--can I? "
"Go up into the Hills for three months, and don't think about it," said
the Doctor.
"But I can't understand it," repeated the Blastoderm. "It was my OWN
mind and memory. "
"I can't help it," said the Doctor; "there are a good many things you
can't understand; and, by the time you have put in my length of service,
you'll know exactly how much a man dare call his own in this world. "
The stroke cowed the Blastoderm. He could not understand it.
He went
into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be
permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began.
This gave him a wholesome feeling of mistrust. The legitimate
explanation, that he had been overworking himself, failed to satisfy
him. Something had wiped his lips of speech, as a mother wipes the milky
lips of her child, and he was afraid--horribly afraid.
So the Club had rest when he returned; and if ever you come across
Aurelian McGoggin laying down the law on things Human--he doesn't seem
to know as much as he used to about things Divine--put your forefinger
on your lip for a moment, and see what happens.
Don't blame me if he throws a glass at your head!
A GERM DESTROYER.
Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods,
When great Jove nods;
But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes.
As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of State
in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you.
This tale is a justifiable exception.
Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy; and
each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary,
who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate looks
after the Indian Empire because it is so big and so helpless.
There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent Private
Secretary--a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid passion for
work. This Secretary was called Wonder--John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy
possessed no name--nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds
of the alphabet after them. He said, in confidence, that he was the
electro-plated figurehead of a golden administration, and he watched
in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's attempts to draw matters which were
entirely outside his province into his own hands.
