other rare and costly edibles, but they probably never knew to what
heights one may ascend in the scale of gastronomic joys in the
immediate presence of a baked Carmen. When it is broken open the
steam ascends like incense from an altar, while at the magic touch
the snowy, flaky substance billows forth upon the plate in a drift
that would inspire the pen of a poet. The further preliminaries
amount to a ceremony. There can be, there must be no haste. The
whole summer lies back of this moment. There on the plate are weeks
of golden sunshine, interwoven with the singing of birds and the
fragrance of flowers; and it were sacrilege to become hurried at the
consummation. When the meat has been made fine the salt and pepper
are applied, deliberately, daintily, and then comes the butter, like
the golden glow of sunset upon a bank of flaky clouds. The artist
tries in vain to rival this blending of colors and shades. But the
supreme moment and the climax come when the feast is glorified and
set apart by its baptism of cream. At such a moment the sense of my
indebtedness to the man who developed the Carmen becomes most acute.
If the leaders of contending armies could sit together at this table
and join in this gracious ceremony, their rancor and enmity would
cease, the protocol would be signed, and there would ensue a
proclamation of peace. Then the whole world would recognize its debt
to the man who produced this potato.

Having eaten the peace-producing potato, I feel strengthened to make
another trial at an interpretation of that lantern. I do not know
whether Diogenes had any acquaintance with the Decalogue, but have my
doubts. In fact, history gives us too few data concerning his
attainments for a clear exposition of his character. But one may
hazard a guess that he was looking for a man who would not steal, but
could not find him. In a sense that was a high compliment to the