It seems to me that, of the varieties of late potatoes the Carmen is the premier.  Part of the charm of hoeing potatoes lies in anticipating the joys of the potato properly baked.  Charles Lamb may write of his roast pig, and the epicures among the ancients may expatiate upon the glories of a dish of peacock’s tongues and their other rare and costly edibles, but they probably never knew to what heights one may ascend in the scale of gastronomic joys in the immediate presence of a baked Carmen.  When it is broken open the steam ascends like incense from an altar, while at the magic touch the snowy, flaky substance billows forth upon the plate in a drift that would inspire the pen of a poet.  The further preliminaries amount to a ceremony.  There can be, there must be no haste.  The whole summer lies back of this moment.  There on the plate are weeks of golden sunshine, interwoven with the singing of birds and the fragrance of flowers; and it were sacrilege to become hurried at the consummation.  When the meat has been made fine the salt and pepper are applied, deliberately, daintily, and then comes the butter, like the golden glow of sunset upon a bank of flaky clouds.  The artist tries in vain to rival this blending of colors and shades.  But the supreme moment and the climax come when the feast is glorified and set apart by its baptism of cream.  At such a moment the sense of my indebtedness to the man who developed the Carmen becomes most acute.  If the leaders of contending armies could sit together at this table and join in this gracious ceremony, their rancor and enmity would cease, the protocol would be signed, and there would ensue a proclamation of peace.  Then the whole world would recognize its debt to the man who produced this potato.

Having eaten the peace-producing potato, I feel strengthened to make another trial at an interpretation of that lantern.  I do not know whether Diogenes had any acquaintance with the Decalogue, but have my doubts.  In fact, history gives us too few data concerning his attainments for a clear exposition of his character.  But one may hazard a guess that he was looking for a man who would not steal, but could not find him.  In a sense that was a high compliment to the people of his day, for there is a sort of stealing that takes rank among the fine arts.  In fact, stealing is the greatest subject that is taught in the school.  I cannot recall a teacher who did not encourage me to strive for mastery in this art.  Every one of them applauded my every success in this line.  One of my early triumphs was reciting “Horatius at the Bridge,” and my teacher almost smothered me with praise.  I simply took what Macaulay had written and made it my own.  I had some difficulty in making off with the conjugation of the Greek verb, but the more I took of it the more my teacher seemed pleased.  All along the line I have been encouraged to appropriate what others have produced and to take