"I gave myself a dig that time: the remark had to be excavated," he
said aloud but as though confidentially to himself. Open
disrespect marked his speech and manner with her always; and sooner
or later she exacted full punishment.

Meantime he had reached the steps. There he stopped and taking off
his straw hat looked up and shook it reproachfully at the heavens.

"What a night, what a night!" he exclaimed. "And what an injustice
to a man wading up to his knees in life's winters."

"How do you do," she said impatiently, always finding it hard to
put up with his lingerings and delays. "Are you coming in?"

"Thank you, I believe I am. But no, wait. I'll not come in until
I have made a speech. It never occurred to me before and it will
never again. It's now or never.

"The life of man should last a single year. He should have one
spring for birth and childhood, for play and growth, for the ending
of his dreams and the beginning of his love. One summer for strife
and toil and passion. One autumn in which to gather the fruits of
his deeds and to live upon them, be they sweet or bitter. One
winter in which to come to an end and wrap himself with resignation
in the snows of nature. Thus he should never know the pain of
seeing spring return when there was nothing within himself to bud
or be sown. Summer would never rage and he have no conflicts nor
passions. Autumn would not pass and he with idle hands neither
give nor gather. And winter should not end without extinguishing