The other day I met Griggs on the cars. Griggs is the man with the mind. Other people have minds, but they’re not like Griggs’s. He lives in Rutherford, New Jersey, and is, like me, a commuter, and as neither of us plays cards nor is interested in politics, and as we have tabooed the weather as a topic, it almost always happens that when we meet, we, or rather he, falls back on his mind as subject for conversation. For my part, my daily newspaper would be all-sufficient for my needs on the way to town; but it pleases Griggs to talk, and it’s bad for my eyes to read on the cars, so I shut them up and cultivate the air of listening, the while Griggs discourses. I had recently read in the Contributors’ Club of the “Atlantic,” an article by a woman, who said that the letters of the alphabet seemed to be variously colored in her mind; that is, her mental picture gave to one letter a green hue, to another red, and so on. I spoke of this to Griggs, and he was much interested. He said that the sound of a cornet was always red to him. I asked him whether it made any difference who blew it, but Griggs scorns to notice puns, and he answered: “Not a particle. I don’t pretend to explain it, but it is so. Likewise, to me the color of scarlet tastes salt, while crimson is sweet.” I opened my eyes and looked at him in amazement. It sounded like a bit out of “Alice in Wonderland.” Then I remembered that it was Griggs who was talking, and that he has a mind. When I don’t understand something about Griggs, I lay it to his mind and think no more about it. So I shut my eyes again and listened. “By the way,” said he, “how does time run in your mind?” “Why, I never thought of its running at all, although it passes quickly enough, for the most part!” “But hasn’t it some general direction? Up or down, north or south, east or west?” “Griggs,” said I, “is this your mind?” “Yes,” said he. “Well, go ahead; fire it off; unfold your kinks!” said I, leaning back in my seat; “but kindly remember that I have no mind, and if you can’t put it in words of one syllable, talk slowly so that I can follow you.” He promised to put it as plainly as though he were talking to his youngest, aged three; and, with this assurance, my cerebrum braced itself, so to speak, and awaited the onslaught. “My idea of the direction of time in all its divisions and subdivisions is as follows--” “Say, Griggs,” said I, “let’s go into the smoker. A little oil of nicotine always makes my brain work easier.” When we were seated in the smoker, and had each lighted a cigar, he went on: “Assuming that I am facing the north, far in the southwest is the Garden of Eden and the early years of recorded time. Moving eastward run the centuries, and the years to come and the end of the world are in the far east.” I felt slightly bewizzled, but I gripped the seat in front of me and said nothing.