第17部分(第2/7 頁)

nto　September。　I　should　think　it　summer　still；　but　that　I　see　the　lanes　yellow…purfled　with　flowers　of　autumn。

I　am　busy　with　the　hawkweeds；　that　is　to　say；　I　am　learning　to　distinguish　and　to　name　as　many　as　I　can。　For　scientific　classification　I　have　little　mind；　it　does　not　happen　to　fall　in　with　my　habits　of　thought；　but　I　like　to　be　able　to　give　its　name　（the　〃trivial〃　by　choice）　to　every　flower　I　meet　in　my　walks。　Why　should　I　be　content　to　say；　〃Oh；　it's　a　hawkweed〃？　That　is　but　one　degree　less　ungracious　than　if　I　dismissed　all　the　yellow…rayed　as　〃dandelions。〃　I　feel　as　if　the　flower　were　pleased　by　my　recognition　of　its　personality。　Seeing　how　much　I　owe　them；　one　and　all；　the　least　I　can　do　is　to　greet　them　severally。　For　the　same　reason　I　had　rather　say　〃hawkweed〃　than　〃hieracium〃；　the　homelier　word　has　more　of　kindly　friendship。

II

How　the　mood　for　a　book　sometimes　rushes　upon　one；　either　one　knows　not　why；　or　in　consequence；　perhaps；　of　some　most　trifling　suggestion。　Yesterday　I　was　walking　at　dusk。　I　came　to　an　old　farmhouse；　at　the　garden　gate　a　vehicle　stood　waiting；　and　I　saw　it　was　our　doctor's　gig。　Having　passed；　I　turned　to　look　back。　There　was　a　faint　afterglow　in　the　sky　beyond　the　chimneys；　a　light　twinkled　at　one　of　the　upper　windows。　I　said　to　myself；　〃Tristram　Shandy；〃　and　hurried　home　to　plunge　into　a　book　which　I　have　not　opened　for　I　dare　say　twenty　years。

Not　long　ago；　I　awoke　one　morning　and　suddenly　thought　of　the　Correspondence　between　Goethe　and　Schiller；　and　so　impatient　did　I　bee　to　open　the　book　that　I　got　up　an　hour　earlier　than　usual。　A　book　worth　rising　for；　much　better　worth　than　old　Burton；　who　pulled　Johnson　out　of　bed。　A　book　which　helps　one　to　forget　the　idle　or　venomous　chatter　going　on　everywher