)urse in sociology, and some of the things that rof Davis has been telling us make you wonder hy the world goes on at all. Some poet has a ne somewhere about man’s inhumanity to man, nd I find myself thinking about that all the time, 'he world’s rotten as hell, and I don’t see how lything can be done about it. I don’t think somemes that it’s worth living in. I can understand hy people commit suicide.” He spoke softly, gaz;g into the fire.
Hugh had given him rapt attention. Suddenly e spoke up, forgetting his resolve not to say anyling more after Ferguson had called him “inno:nt.” “I think you ’re wrong, Mel,” he said posively. “I was reading a book the other day called ^avengro.’ It’s all about Gipsies. Well, this dlow Lavengro was all busted up and depressed; z’s just about made up his mind to commit suicide hen he meets a friend of his, a Gipsy. He tells le Gipsy that he’s going to bump himself off, that e does n’t see anything in life to live for. Then le Gipsy answers him. Gee, it hit me square in ?e eye, and I memorized it on the spot. I think can say it. He says: ‘There’s night and day, rother, both sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, rother, all sweet things; there’s likewise a wind on ie heath. Life is very sweet, brother; who would ish to die?’ I think that’s beautiful,” he added mply, “and I think it’s true, too.”
