in the sun? What a zest there is in that intimate unreserved exchange of
thought, in the pursuit of the magical blue bird of joy and human
satisfaction that may be seen flitting distantly through the branches of
life. It was a sad thing for the world when it grew so busy that men had
no time to talk. There are such treasures of knowledge and compassion in
the minds of our friends, could we only have time to talk them out of
their shy quarries. If we had our way, we would set aside one day a week
for talking. In fact, we would reorganize the week altogether. We would
have one day for Worship (let each man devote it to worship of whatever
he holds dearest); one day for Work; one day for Play (probably
fishing); one day for Talking; one day for Reading, and one day for
Smoking and Thinking. That would leave one day for Resting, and
(incidentally) interviewing employers.

The best week of our life was one in which we did nothing but talk. We
spent it with a delightful gentleman who has a little bungalow on the
shore of a lake in Pike County. He had a great many books and cigars,
both of which are conversational stimulants. We used to lie out on the
edge of the lake, in our oldest trousers, and talk. We discussed ever so
many subjects; in all of them he knew immensely more than we did. We
built up a complete philosophy of indolence and good will, according to
Food and Sleep and Swimming their proper share of homage. We rose at 10
in the morning and began talking; we talked all day and until 3 o'clock
at night. Then we went to bed and regained strength and combativeness
for the coming day. Never was a week better spent. We committed no
crimes, planned no secret treaties, devised no annexations or
indemnities. We envied no one. We examined the entire world and found it
worth while. Meanwhile our wives, who were watching (perhaps with a
little quiet indignation) from the veranda, kept on asking us, "What on
earth do you talk about?"