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THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



skillfully was art applied and so kind- 

 ly has time covered every trace of it, 

 that one would little think that the 

 lake was other than natural or that 

 it is really a little lake and marsh trans- 

 formed. It was necessary only to build 

 a low dam on the southern side and 

 skillfully to hide that dam by rocks now 

 covered with moss and lichen to give 

 the beholder that enchantment rarely 

 present except in a wild lake or remote 

 forest. The lake has been bountifully 

 stocked with bass and here comes, as 

 has been previously stated in this mag- 

 azine, the nature loving owner to find 

 his greatest joy in feeding them. He 

 also takes pleasure in rowing the boat 

 in a quiet, contemplative manner over 

 this watery mirror. This is real nature 

 study, real communion with the nat- 

 ural. A pretty fancy of the Commo- 

 dore's was to letter on the edge of an 

 overhanging rock, "Shelter for the Fish 

 when it Rains." And the best part is 

 that it is true, because not only when 

 it rains but in fair weather one may 

 see many fish gliding leisurely in the 

 waters below the lettered rock. Above 

 this stone on the broad enbankment is 

 a group of interesting green mosses 

 that would bring almost a scream of 

 ecstasy from the lover of such cozy 

 natural retreats. The most beautiful 

 things in nature are not always far 

 away, or accessible only with difficulty, 

 but when left unmolested she now dec- 

 orates the nook as skillfully as she did 

 in the days when the Indian's moc- 

 casined foot stepped along this way. 

 Skill in natural decoration is to give 

 nature full scope and then let her alone. 

 She seems to dislike to be disturbed by 

 the hand of man and over man's efforts 

 she spreads a mantle of harmony and 

 softly blended colors. This lake is one 

 of the best examples that I have seen. 

 In walking through the forest one 

 comes upon it with a surprise as upon 

 an undiscovered country. The local 

 impression is that of a scene far remov- 

 ed in the northern woods, and the ob- 

 server has a mingled sensation of 

 pleasure and of wonder when standing 

 on the shore and looking across this 

 dreamland hears at the same time the 

 sound of the locomotive whistle. 



Minds Running in the Same Channel. 



While riding on the trolley car re- 

 cently I said to Mr. B. M. Ayres, my 

 companion, that great minds run in 

 the same channel. The remark was 

 suggested by some little event, but Mr. 

 Ayres replied, "Yes, and that reminds 

 me of a curious incident in which I and 

 a fox thought just alike." Mr. Ayres, 

 let it be explained, has a country home 

 where the surrounding territory is in 

 the primitive wild. Occasionally a fox 

 makes depredation on the hen yard. 

 About ten o'clock in the forenoon Mr. 

 Ayres heard a commotion among the 

 hens and going to the chicken yard 

 found that a fox had attempted to kill 

 a hen and had left a multiplicity of 

 feathers on the ground. The fox, 

 which, by the way, had a body with 

 peculiar yellowish spots and a gray 

 tail, also grayish underside, ran away 

 as Mr. Ayres approached. 



Mr. Ayres returned to his occupa- 

 tion and at about two o'clock in the 

 afternoon it occurred to him to take 

 another look at that hen yard. He 

 went down there and to his astonish- 

 ment met the fox at the same place as 

 before. The fox had undoubtedly also 

 made up his mind to investigate the 

 hen yard at exactly the same time as 

 Mr. Ayres decided to do so. 



THE SLEEPING GARDEN. 



By Miriam Brower Jacobs, Greenwich, Conn. 

 Tis slumber time in my garden now, 



Its greenness gone and its fragrance fled, 

 The dry grass trails in untrodden paths, 



And brown leaves cover each quiet bed. 



Lone silence reigns in my garden now, 

 For the myriad folk that crawl or fly 



Have hushed their voices and crept away 

 And only the wind croons a lullaby. 



Gray stems are left where the lillies gleam'd 



In stately splendor thro' sunlit hours. 

 And blacken'd stalks with their seed-pods 

 show 

 Where hollyhocks flam'd mid the ivy 

 bowers. 



Of what are they dreaming in songless sleep 

 Beneath the folds of the drifted snow? 



Of crystal dews, and shimmer of wings 

 And the thrush's note in the twilight glow? 



Bereft, I bade them a brave good night, 

 And wav'd farewell in the autumn gloom, 



But, held in my heart, my jasmine vines, 

 My roses and myrtle still live and bloom t 



