But today its autumn is a bit depressing. It no longer lures toward
strange adventure. Instead its grayness seems to say to one, "Stay
away--stay away. Hide away in warm houses and warm overcoats. Men are
little things--puny things."
It is when one leaves the city and goes to visit or to live in another
place where there is no lake that the lake grows y alive in one's mind.
One becomes thirsty for it and dreams of it. One remembers it then as
something that was almost an essential part of life, like a third
dimension. In some way one associates one's day dreams with the lake and
falls into thinking that there is something unfinished, sterile about
living with no lake at one's elbow.
* * * * *
In a short while, a month or so, the lake will become a stage for
melodrama. The people riding on its edge will stare into mists. They will
watch the huge mist shapes rolling back and forth over the hidden water.
The blue of the sky, the cold sun, the fog and the freezing water will
become actors in a great play and the train windows will be little
prosceniums inclosing the melodrama of winter.
SERGT. KUZICK'S WATERLOO
"Offhand," said Sergt. Kuzick of the first precinct, "offhand, I can't
think of any stories for you.
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