Many things happen in life which want no explanation, which is well, as they provide none. There may be, to the scientist or madman, a reason why the snow falls, but my blind, little dog is wiser, I think, than they. She makes no mention of the snow. As it comes down without apology, she accepts its icy carpet without complaint. It is, and it is a joy to her, at least, when she was a pup, she would prance through the snow hardly able to contain her excitement. There is, as well, a sun and moon and stars above, an earth below, which she never questions.
Yet I do. It is, I think, the lot or fault in man that he must ask, “Why?” He is gripped by a need to fill the world with reason. It is my humor to ask the dog why it is snowing, and I get as good an answer from the snow as I do from the dog, which is silent indifference. The snow is here to fall and has little time for my questions; the dog too, is at her business.
Tale Told 