such a one will ever after have a snug place in his affections for
the Irish, whether he has kissed the "Blarney stone" or not. If he
has heard this same driver of a jaunting-car rhapsodize about
"Shandon Bells" and the author, Father Prout, his admiration for
things and people Irish will become well-nigh a passion. He will not
need to add to his mental picture, for the sake of emphasis or color,
the cherry-cheeked maids who lead their mites of donkeys along leafy
roads, the carts heaped high with cabbages. Even without this
addition he will become expansive when he speaks of Ireland and the
Irish.

But, as I was saying, Brown came in this evening just to barter small
talk, as we often do. Now, in physical build Brown is somewhere
between Falstaff and Cassius, while in mental qualities he is an
admixture of Plato, Solomon, and Bill Nye.

When he drops in we do not discuss matters, nor even converse; we
talk. Our talk just oozes out and flows whither it wills, or little
wisps of talk drift into the silences, and now and then a dash of
homely philosophy splashes into the talking. Brown is a real
comfort. He is never cryptic, nor enigmatic, at least consciously
so, nor does he ever try to be impressive. If he were a teacher he
would attract his pupils by his good sense, his sincerity, his
simplicity, and his freedom from pose. I cannot think of him as ever
becoming teachery, with a high-pitched voice and a hysteric manner.
He has too much poise for that. He would never discuss things with
children. He would talk with them. Brown cannot walk on stilts, nor
has the air-ship the least fascination for him.

One of my teachers for a time was Doctor T. C. Mendenhall, and he was