ONCE upon a time (and you will see later that it was fortunately not twice upon this time) in the garden of the ChÂteau of Nyon, in the sweet heart of a lime tree and very near to the little padded box where they keep the silkworms, there lived a chrysalis, whose ancestors had come over with John Knox, but who nevertheless agreed with Hume. “The Almighty,” he said, speaking with what he conceived to be a Scottish accent, “is merely a prrojection of the chrysalis mind—a varra puir exemple of the association of incomparable ideas. Now Kant, as every Scotsman knows, dragged in the soul—a silly bit fluttering thing with white wings—the great gowk. Mon, it’s a peety....” “Qu’est que tu me chantes lÀ,” exclaimed an elderly silk-worm, who was busily occupied in his exquisite occupation. “Execrable worm, thinkest thou that because thou art no better than a dried twig that all suffer “What,” exclaimed the chrysalis, “is it Scotland you’re naming in the same breath wi’ your God-forgotten, pope-ridden, frog-warren? A’m black ashamed, ah am, and metaphysic or no a’ll no ha it said that any trapesing piece of a Frenchy had a soul and me from the Clachans of the Tolbooth no. But mind,” he added as he burst, and from his husk daintily, like a lace handkerchief out of lavender, rose the butterfly, “my opeenions remain unchanged.” “I also,” said the silk-worm, “who have all the years had faith, will take wings.” And he breathed very hard and deep, but the only result was that he spoiled his skein. |