I like to think of it, too, on winter's nights standing in the empty field with all leaves close-furled, nothing tender exposed to the iron bullets of the moon, a naked mast upon an earth that goes tumbling, tumbling, all night long. One by one the fibres snap beneath the immense cold pressure of the earth, then the last storm comes and, falling, the highest branches drive deep into the ground again. It is full of peaceful thoughts, happy thoughts, this tree. I can't remember a thing. There is a vast upheaval of matter.
Nothing ever happens.
All the same, I don't see why we should have a snail on our wall. It was a snail. The Mark on the Wall. Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc., 1921. Copyright 1999 Writopia Inc . .