When Wolston the
mechanician, and Ernest the philosopher, travelled in company, it was
rare that some pebble or plant, or question in physics, did not induce
them to deviate from their route or tarry on their way. One day they
both started for Rockhouse to fetch provisions for the family dinner,
but instead of bringing back the needful supplies of beef and mutton,
they returned in great glee with the solution of an intricate problem
in geometry. All fared very indifferently on that occasion, and, in
consequence, Wolston and Ernest were, from that time on, deprived of
the office of purveyors.
In the present instance, instead of running like Mrs. Becker, they had
philosophically seated themselves on the trunk of a tree. At their
feet was a diagram that Wolston had traced with the end of his stick;
this was neither a tangent nor a triangle, as might have been
expected, but a figure denoting how to carve one's way to a position,
amidst the rugged defiles of life.
"In all things," observed Wolston, "in morals as well as physics, the
shortest road from one point to another, is the straight line."
"Unless," objected Ernest, "the straight line were encumbered with
obstacles, that would require more time to surmount than to go round.
Two leagues of clear road would be better than one only a single
league in length, if intersected by ditches and strewn with wild
beasts.
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