"I should think we'd be somethin' like 'em if we eat that," said Mrs.
Barnard, pointing at the sorrel, with piteous sarcasm.

"It's the principle I'm thinkin' about," said Cephas. He stirred some
salt into the flour very carefully, so not a dust fell over the brim
of the bowl.

"Horses don't eat meat, neither, an' they don't chew their cuds,"
Mrs. Barnard argued further. She had never in her life argued with
Cephas; but sorrel pies, after the night before, made her wildly
reckless.

Cephas got a gourdful of water from the pail in the sink, and carried
it carefully over to the table. "Horses are the exception," he
returned, with dignified asperity. "There always are exceptions. What
I was comin' at was--I'd been kind of wrong in my reasonin'. That is,
I 'ain't reasoned far enough. I was right so far as I went."

Cephas poured some water from the gourd into the bowl of flour and
began stirring.

Sarah caught her breath. "He's makin'--paste!" she gasped. "He's jest
makin' flour paste!"

"Jest so far as I went I was right," Cephas resumed, pouring in a
little more water with a judicial air. "I said Man was animal, an' he
is animal; an' if you don't take anything else into account, he'd
ought to live on animal food, jest the way I reasoned it out. But
you've got to take something else into account. Man is animal, but he
ain't all animal. He's something else. He's spiritual. Man has