“It’s swell here,” he said, dreamily. “Like the woods?”

“Yes.”

“Winter, when it’s cold and dirty, I think about how it’s here summers. It’s like you could take it out of your head and look at it whenever you wanted to.”

“Endymion.”

“Huh?”

“A man said practically the same thing the other day. Name of Keats.”

“Yeh?”

“He said: ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’“

“That’s one way putting it,” he agreed, graciously.