Signs

As I onward plod, I have relished within my upper head and to a concluding come. A Sign I must have. The wisdom of that lately met and daringly liked Edgar has not escaped me, nor has his open wobinity been in vain. That sign he bore was a beacon, a proclamation to all the world of his innermost dream and sole intent. "Going south--Hungry" had he scrawled upon a board of wrinkle and tear, and therefore to the farthest Weem did he hurl his purpose. So driven was his fervor that he sought that southward way and shunned all food till his sojourn should end in victory. Such determination! Such profundity.

Yes. I must have a sign. A noble screed to herald my quest and drive me thence. And thus have I endeavored. At length (and no small width) I believe that I have, at last, achieved the summation of all my unfoldings, gloanings, and causes for bold action, and writ it proudly with two words of renown and great portent. Yes a sign. A sign that a Weem adrift may wear with pride.

See then The Sign:








Perhaps someday I will have chance to repay that princely Edgar, who wildly spat and largely smelt. Until then, he looms upon my memory like mounds upon the Smolden Vole.