to me. It is only in recent years that I have discovered the pathos
of that monologue; how friendless my father was and uncompanioned in
his thoughts and feelings, and what a hunger he may have felt for
the sympathy of the undeveloped youngster who trotted by his side.

"I'm no gardener," he said, "I'm no anything. Why the devil did I
start gardening?

"I suppose man was created to mind a garden. . . But the Fall let
us out of that! What was I created for? God! what was I created
for? . . .

"Slaves to matter! Minding inanimate things! It doesn't suit me,
you know. I've got no hands and no patience. I've mucked about
with life. Mucked about with life." He suddenly addressed himself
to me, and for an instant I started like an eavesdropper discovered.
"Whatever you do, boy, whatever you do, make a Plan. Make a good
Plan and stick to it. Find out what life is about--I never have--
and set yourself to do whatever you ought to do. I admit it's a
puzzle. . . .

"Those damned houses have been the curse of my life. Stucco white
elephants! Beastly cracked stucco with stains of green--black and
green. Conferva and soot. . . . Property, they are! . . . Beware
of Things, Dick, beware of Things! Before you know where you are
you are waiting on them and minding them. They'll eat your life up.
Eat up your hours and your blood and energy! When those houses came
to me, I ought to have sold them--or fled the country. I ought to
have cleared out. Sarcophagi--eaters of men! Oh! the hours and
days of work, the nights of anxiety those vile houses have cost me!