reflective, and for nearly a week had been spending the best powers
of his unaided thought in self-examination.

He was sitting one morning at his student's table with his Bible
and note-book opened before him, wrestling with his problems still.
The dormitory was very quiet. A few students remained indoors at
work, but most were absent: some gone into the country to preach
trial sermons to trying congregations; some down in the town; some
at the college, practising hymns, or rehearsing for society
exhibitions; some scattered over the campus, preparing Monday
lessons on a spring morning when animal sap stirs intelligently at
its sources and sends up its mingled currents of new energy and new
lassitude.

David had thrown his window wide open, to let in the fine air; his
eyes strayed outward. A few yards away stood a stunted transplanted
locust--one of those uncomplaining asses of the vegetable kingdom
whose mission in life is to carry whatever man imposes. Year after
year this particular tree had remained patiently backed up behind
the dormitory, for the bearing of garments to be dusted or dried.
More than once during the winter, the lad had gazed out of his
snow-crusted panes at this dwarfed donkey of the woods, its feet
buried deep in ashes, its body covered with kitchen wash-rags and
Bible students' frozen underwear. He had reasoned that such soil
and such servitude had killed it.

But as he looked out of his window now, his eyes caught sight of
the early faltering green in which this exile of the forest was
still struggling to clothe itself--its own life vestments. Its
enforced and artificial function as a human clothes-horse had