"Ramsay," says he, pointing one lank fore-finger at me, "Ramsay, draw
your neck out of that collar; for the vanities of the wicked are a yoke
leading captive the foolish!"
Now, my collar was _point-de-vice_ of prime quality over black velvet.
My uncle's welcome was more than a vain lad could stomach; and what
youth of his first teens hath not a vanity hidden about him somewhere?
"Thou shalt not put the horse and the ass under the same yoke, sir,"
said I, drawing myself up far as ever high heels would lift.
He looked dazed for a minute. Then he told me that he spake concerning
my spiritual blindness, his compassions being moved to show me the
error of my way.
At that, old nurse must needs take fire.
"Lord save a lad from the likes o' sich compassions! Sure, sir, an the
good Lord makes pretty hair grow, 'twere casting pearls before swine to
shave his head like a cannon-ball"--this with a look at my uncle's
crown--"or to dress a proper little gentleman like a ragged
flibbergibbet."
"Tibbie, hold your tongue!" I order.
"Silence were fitter for fools and children," says Eli Kirke loftily.
There comes a time when every life must choose whether to laugh or weep
over trivial pains, and when a cut may be broken on the foil of that
glancing mirth which the good Creator gave mankind to keep our race
from going mad.
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