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Herb Of Grace (Fiscle Part-Vi)

By:
Herb Of Grace (Fiscle Part-Vi)
Our Adventures Hover Round Us Like Bees Round The Hive When
Preparing To Swarm.--Maeterlinck.


From Boyhood Malcolm Herrick Had Been A Lover Of The Picturesque. In
Secret He Prided Himself On Possessing The Artistic Faculty, And
Yet, Except In The Nursery, He Had Never Drawn A Line, Or Later On
Spoilt Canvas And Daubed Himself In Oils Under The Idea That He Was
An Embryo Millais Or Turner. But Nevertheless He Had The Seeing Eye,
And Could Find Beauty Where More Prosaic People Could Only See
Barrenness: A Stubble Field Newly Turned Up By The Plough Moved Him
To Admiration, While A Surrey Lane, With A Gate Swinging Back On Its
Hinges, And A Bowed Old Man Carrying Faggots, In The Smoky Light Of
An October Evening, Gave Him A Feeling Akin To Ecstasy. More Than
One Of His School-Fellows Remembered How, Even In The Cricket Field,
He Would Stand As Though Transfixed, Looking At The Storm Clouds,
With Their Steely Edges, Coming Up Behind The Copse, But The Palms
Of His Hands Were Outstretched And He Never Failed To Catch The
Ball.

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