INTATPALACE OF RELDS. 131 
turtles came up out of the water and crawled 
along on a sandy place. Two doves circled in 
the air, sailing like sparrow-hawks, getting 
lower and lower, until they lit upon a stone 
in the shallows below us and drank thirstily. 
We heard the woodpeckers pounding in the 
woods behind the hill, the nuthatches crying 
“ank, ank,” in the great tulip tree hard by, 
and high overhead, in the yellow glory of sun- 
light, a hen-hawk screaming. Odors arose 
and passed down the waxing wind. The cane 
leaves tipped each other lightly, and a whisper- 
ing of many voices arose from the rushes and 
flags. So twilight thickened into night. The 
stars crept out and the great horned owl and 
the night-hawk crept out, too, with some solemn 
bats and giant moths, that whirled and darted 
above the reeds. 
Such a fortnight in the woods as I have been 
lightly sketching, will bring to him who rightly 
uses it a rich return for whatever sacrifice it 
compels. It is to Nature one must go for 
ideas. Her lessons are rich with original 
germs for the philosopher, the poet, the artist 
or the romancer to vitalize his works withal. 
No genuine bit of originality can be found, in 
poem, picture or tale, which has not been 
drawn from the secret depositories of Nature. 
The woods and streams, the hills and winds 
are but the indices to volumes, one leaf of 
which would exhaust the literature of ages. 
All eloquence, poetry, and painting can be 
better understood when one is as free as the 
winds and as happy as a brook. To know 
what is supreme enjoyment, go into the woods 
and, lying beside a rivulet in fair June weather, 
read Theocritus till the bubbling stream and 
