stretch his neck and crow。 A bird in my hand was then worth two in
the……barnyard。
My fingers cannot； of course； get the impression of a large whole at a
glance； but I feel the parts； and my mind puts them together。 I move
around my house； touching object after object in order； before I can
form an idea of the entire house。 In other people's houses I can touch
only what is shown to me……the chief objects of interest； carvings on the
wall； or a curious architectural feature； exhibited like the family
album。 Therefore a house with which I am not familiar has for me； at
first； no general effect or harmony of detail。 It is not a plete
conception； but a collection of object…impressions which； as they e
to me； are disconnected and isolated。 But my mind is full of
associations； sensations； theories； and with them it constructs the
house。 The process reminds me of the building of Solomon's temple； where
was neither saw； nor hammer； nor any tool heard while the stones were
being laid one upon another。 The silent worker is imagination which
decrees reality out of chaos。
Without imagination what a poor thing my world would be！ My garden would
be a silent patch of earth strewn with sticks of a variety of shapes and
smells。 But when the eye of my mind is opened to its beauty； the bare
ground brightens beneath my feet； and the hedge…row bursts into leaf；
and the rose…tree shakes its fragrance everywhere。 I know how budding
trees look； and I enter into the amorous joy of the mating birds； and
this is the miracle of imagination。
Twofold is the miracle when； through my fingers； my imagination reaches
forth and me