"really it is not the 
business of the gods to bake clay pots." They did not
do it in this instance. A few
revolved upon the axes of their worth
as if excessive popularity might be a pot;

they did not venture the 
profession of humility. The polished wedge
that might have split the firmament
was dumb. At last it threw itself away
and falling down, conferrred on some poor fool, a privilege.

"Taller by the length of a conversation of five hundred years than all
the others," ther was one whose tales
of what could never have been actual - 
were better than the haggish, uncompanionable drawl

of certitude; his by-
play was more terrible in its effectiveness
than the fiercest frontal attack.
The staff, the bag, the feigned inconsequence
of manner, best bespeak that weapon, self-protectiveness.