hopped from the porch onto the grass, and turned, waiting.
“I will not leave the house to-day,” I said with obstinacy.
“You will come into the garden!” rejoined the raven.
“I give in so far,” I replied, and stepped from the porch.
The sun broke through the clouds, and the raindrops flashed and sparkled on the grass. The raven was walking over it.
“You will wet your feet!” I cried.
“And mire my beak,” he answered, immediately plunging it deep in the sod, and drawing out a great wriggling red worm. He threw back his head, and tossed it in the air. It spread great wings, gorgeous in red and black, and soared aloft.
“Tut! tut!” I exclaimed; “you mistake, Mr. Raven: worms are not the larvæ of butterflies!”
“Never mind,” he croaked; “it will do for once! I’m not a reading man at present, but sexton at the—at a certain graveyard—cemetery, more properly—in—at—no matter where!”
“I see! you can’t keep your spade still: and when you have nothing to bury, you must dig something up! Only you should mind what it is before you make it fly! No creature should be allowed to forget what and where it came from!”
“Why?” said the raven.
“Because it will grow proud, and cease to recognise its superiors.”
No man knows it when he is making an idiot of himself.
“Where DO the worms come from?” said the raven, as if suddenly grown curious to know.
“Why, from the earth, as you have just seen!” I answered.
“Yes, last!” he replied. “But they can’t have come from it first—for that will never go back to it!” he added, looking up.
I looked up also, but could see nothing save a little dark cloud, the edges of which were red, as if with the light of the sunset.
“Surely the sun is not going down!” I exclaimed, struck with amazement.
“Oh, no!” returned the raven. “That red belongs to the worm.”
“You see what comes of making creatures forget their origin!” I cried with some warmth.
“It is well, surely, if it be to rise higher and grow larger!” he returned. “But indeed I only teach them to find it!”
“Would you have the air full of worms?”
“That is the business of a sexton. If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well!”
In went his beak again through the soft turf, and out came the wriggling worm. He tossed it in the air, and away it flew.
I looked behind me, and gave a cry of dismay: I had but that moment declared I would not leave the house, and already I was a stranger in the strange land!
“What right have you to treat me so, Mr. Raven?” I said with deep offence. “Am I, or am I not, a free agent?”
“A man is as free as he chooses to make himself, never an atom freer,” answered the raven.
“You have no right to make me do things against my will!”
“When you have a will, you will find that no one can.”
“You wrong me in the very essence of my individuality!” I persisted.
“If you were an individual I could not, therefore now I do not. You are but beginning to become an individual.”
All about me was a pine-forest, in which my eyes were already searching deep, in the hope of discovering an unaccountable glimmer, and so finding my way home. But, alas! how could I any longer call that house HOME, where every door, every window opened into OUT, and even the garden I could not keep inside!
I suppose I looked discomfited.
“Perhaps it may comfort you,” said the raven, “to be told that you have not yet left your house, neither has your house left you. At the same time it cannot contain you, or you inhabit it!”
“I do not understand you,” I replied. “Where am I?”
“In the region of the seven dimensions,” he answered, with a curious noise in his throat, and a flutter of his tail. “You had better follow me carefully now for a moment, lest you should hurt some one!”
“There is nobody to hurt but yourself, Mr. Raven! I confess I should rather like to hurt you!”
“That you see nobody is where the danger lies. But you see that large tree to your left, about thirty yards away?”
“Of course I do: why should I not?” I answered testily.
“Ten minutes ago you did not see it, and now you do not know where it stands!”
“I do.”
“Where do you think it stands?”
“Why THERE, where you know it is!”
“Where is THERE?”
“You bother me with your silly questions!” I cried. “I am growing tired of you!”
“That tree stands on the hearth of your kitchen, and grows nearly straight up its chimney,” he said.
“Now I KNOW you are making game of me!” I answered, with a laugh of scorn.
“Was I making game of you when you discovered me looking out of your star-sapphire yesterday?”
“That was this morning—not an hour ago!”
“I have been widening your horizon longer than that, Mr. Vane; but never mind!”
“You mean you have been making a fool of me!” I said, turning from him.
“Excuse me: no one can do that but yourself!”
“And I decline to do it.”
“You mistake.”
“How?”
“In declining to acknowledge yourself one already. You make yourself such by refusing what is true, and for that you will sorely punish yourself.”
“How, again?”
“By believing what is not true.”
“Then, if I walk to the other side of that tree, I shall walk through the kitchen fire?”
“Certainly. You would first, however, walk through the lady at the piano in the breakfast-room. That rosebush is close by her. You would give her a terrible start!”
“There is no lady in the house!”
“Indeed! Is not your housekeeper a lady? She is counted such in a certain country where all are servants,
