It had often happened to him, he went on to say, to be
interrupted in his observations by clouds covering the objects he was
examining for a longer or shorter time. In these idle moments he had put
down many thoughts, unskilfully he feared, but just as they came into his
mind. His blank verse he suspected was often faulty. His thoughts he
knew must be crude, many of them. It would please him to have me amuse
myself by putting them into shape. He was kind enough to say that I was
an artist in words, but he held himself as an unskilled apprentice.
I confess I was appalled when I cast my eye upon the title of the
manuscript, "Cirri and Nebulae."
--Oh! oh!--I said,--that will never do. People don't know what Cirri
are, at least not one out of fifty readers. "Wind-Clouds and
Star-Drifts" will do better than that.
--Anything you like,--he answered,--what difference does it make how you
christen a foundling? These are not my legitimate scientific offspring,
and you may consider them left on your doorstep.
--I will not attempt to say just how much of the diction of these lines
belongs to him, and how much to me. He said he would never claim them,
after I read them to him in my version. I, on my part, do not wish to be
held responsible for some of his more daring thoughts, if I should see
fit to reproduce them hereafter.
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