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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
56
I
may
be
over-glorifying
the
sense
of
smell,
but
it
is
only
because
I
walked
this
morning
in
a
world
of
odours.
The
greatest
of
the
senses,
of
course,
is
not
smell
or
hearing,
but
sight.
What
would
not
any
man
exchange
for
that:
for
the
faces
one
loves,
for
the
scenes
one
holds
most
dear,
for
all
that
is
beautiful
and
changeable
and
beyond
description?
The
Scotch
Preacher
says
that
the
saddest
lines
in
all
literature
are
those
of
Milton,
writing
of
his
blindness.
"Seasons
return;
but
not
to
me
returns
Day,
or
the
sweet
approach
of
even
or
morn,
Or
sight
of
vernal
bloom
or
Summer's
rose,
Or
flocks,
or
herds,
or
human
face
divine."
--I
have
wandered
a
long
way
from
ditch-digging,
but
not
wholly
without
intention.
Sooner
or
later
I
try
to
get
back
into
the
main
road.
I
throw
down
my
spade
in
the
wet
trampled
grass
at
the
edge
of
the
ditch.
I
take
off
my
coat
and
hang
it
over
a
limb
of
the
little
hawthorn
tree.
I
put
my
bag
near
it.
I
roll
up
the
sleeves
of
my
flannel
shirt:
I
give
my
hat
a
twirl;
I'm
ready
for
work.
--The
senses
are
the
tools
by
which
we
lay
hold
upon
the
world:
they
are
the
implements
of
consciousness
and
growth.
So
long
as
they
are
used
upon
the
good
earth--used
to
wholesome
weariness--they
remain
healthy,
they
yield
enjoyment,
they
nourish
growth;
but
let
them
once
be
removed
from
their
natural
employment
and
they
turn
and
feed
upon
themselves,
they
seek
the
stimulation
of
luxury,
they
wallow
in
their
own
corruption,
and
finally,
worn
out,
perish
from
off
the
earth
which
they
have
not
appreciated.
Vice
is
ever
the
senses
gone
astray.
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