Once as we descended a mountain side by side with the mountain torrent, my companion saw, while I missed seeing, a foambow.
In all my life I do not recollect to have seen one, except perhaps in artificial fountains; but such general omission seems a matter of course, and therefore simply a matter of indifference. That single natural foambow which I might have beheld and espied not, is the one to which may attach a tinge of regret; because, in a certain sense, it depended upon myself to look at it, yet I did not look.
I might have done so, and I did not: such is the sting to-day in petty matters.
And what else will be the sting in matters all important at the last day?