motes ot tbe 1FU0bt 



world now. Go out into the night with no dis- 

 turbing thoughts. Gaze awhile at the stars and 

 lose in a measure your earthiness, and the song of 

 a dreaming bird will arouse you to a quicker sym- 

 pathy with the creatures to which it is now day. 

 And, above all else, do not go out into the night if 

 you have been abroad all day, and so, from sheer 

 exhaustion, are not in a receptive frame of mind. 

 Few things in this world are more marked than 

 the limits of our endurance. Varied as are the 

 aspects of any landscape during the four seasons, 

 it does not make material difference when you go. 

 There will be far more open to you than will be 

 seen, and even in the dead of winter it will not be 

 a case of "silence for all sound." Though the 

 world at such a time may seem asleep, some crea- 

 ture other than yourself will surely be astir. It 

 remains with you whether or not you see and hear 

 it. I have often taken such a walk as this, both 

 during the harvest-moon at the end of summer and 

 when the same moon flooded the landscape in 

 January, with snow and ice for withered weeds 

 and open water. 



Under the old oaks, whose leaves, because of 

 the drought, were now tough, leathery, and limp 

 upon their stems, the moonlight failed to light the 

 well-worn path, but as I looked upward, the tree- 

 tops stood out upon a blue-black sky, and the 

 twist of every sturdy bough was plain as day. 

 But how much larger ! This is one of the charms 

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