波波小说

第2部分（第1页）

stretch　his　neck　and　crow。　A　bird　in　my　hand　was　then　worth　two　in

the……barnyard。

My　fingers　cannot；　of　course；　get　the　impression　of　a　large　whole　at　a

glance；　but　I　feel　the　parts；　and　my　mind　puts　them　together。　I　move

around　my　house；　touching　object　after　object　in　order；　before　I　can

form　an　idea　of　the　entire　house。　In　other　peoples　houses　I　can　touch

only　what　is　shown　to　me……the　chief　objects　of　interest；　carvings　on　the

wall；　or　a　curious　architectural　feature；　exhibited　like　the　family

album。　Therefore　a　house　with　which　I　am　not　familiar　has　for　me；　at

first；　no　general　effect　or　harmony　of　detail。　It　is　not　a　plete

conception；　but　a　collection　of　object…impressions　which；　as　they　e

to　me；　are　disconnected　and　isolated。　But　my　mind　is　full　of

associations；　sensations；　theories；　and　with　them　it　constructs　the

house。　The　process　reminds　me　of　the　building　of　Solomons　temple；　where

was　neither　saw；　nor　hammer；　nor　any　tool　heard　while　the　stones　were

being　laid　one　upon　another。　The　silent　worker　is　imagination　which

decrees　reality　out　of　chaos。

Without　imagination　what　a　poor　thing　my　world　would　be！　My　garden　would

be　a　silent　patch　of　earth　strewn　with　sticks　of　a　variety　of　shapes　and

smells。　But　when　the　eye　of　my　mind　is　opened　to　its　beauty；　the　bare

ground　brightens　beneath　my　feet；　and　the　hedge…row　bursts　into　leaf；

and　the　rose…tree　shakes　its　fragrance　everywhere。　I　know　how　budding

trees　look；　and　I　enter　into　the　amorous　joy　of　the　mating　birds；　and

this　is　the　miracle　of　imagination。

Twofold　is　the　miracle　when；　through　my　fingers；　my　imagination　reaches

forth　and　meets　the　imagination　of　an　artist　which　he　has　embodied　in　a

sculptured　form。　Although；　pared　with　the　life…warm；　mobile　face　of　a

friend；　the　marble　is　cold　and　pulseless　and　unresponsive；　yet　it　is

beautiful　to　my　hand。　Its　flowing　curves　and　bendings　are　a　real

pleasure；　only　breath　is　wanting；　but　under　the　spell　of　the　imagination

the　marble　thrills　and　bees　the　divine　reality　of　the　ideal。

Imagination　puts　a　sentiment　into　every　line　and　curve；　and　the　statue

in　my　touch　is　indeed　the　goddess　herself　who　breathes　and　moves　and

enchants。

It　is　true；　however；　that　some　sculptures；　even　recognized　masterpieces；

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