any mark, and then you decide that you haven't, and it doesn't bother you any more. Experience, based upon lack of understanding, is what makes all the bother."
"But how can I help believing that scratch?—and it feels sore now that we're talking about it, too."
Uncle Rob took up a sheet of stiff paper, about six by nine inches, and rolled it into a cone which was something like an inch and a quarter across the big end, and three-fourths of an inch at the little end; then he fastened it with a scrap of gummed paper from the stamp drawer, and snipped off the corner at the top, so as to make it straight around.
Bess and I were watching him curiously.
"Now, Chet," he said, "hold the big end of this close to your right eye, up tight against it, with your eye open so that you can look through."
I did.
"Now hold your left hand with the palm toward your face, and the edge of your hand resting against the cone at about two inches from the big end. Now keep both eyes open, and what do you see?"
"A hole clear through the palm of my hand."
