The Rambles of an Idler 



Ever the old story, more reason to lament than 

 to exult. 



But, preaching to the winds ! Either I hear 

 winter's little yellow tree-toad or Tune is rumi- 

 nating in a muttering way. One or the other, 

 and I, too, "chew the cud of sweet and bitter 

 fancy, " for these are the perfected days of 

 winter and both meditation and exertion are 

 called for. Labor is set to music and we can 

 both sing its praises and practice its precepts. 

 I am standing now on the sunny side of an old 

 tree wondering what next to do. 



Old trees do they wool-gather ? 



Three or more hundred years ago this way- 

 side chestnut was a trail-side tree. Does it 

 think now of those who passed when it wore a 

 greener crown and does it deign to notice the 

 toiling, overanxious crowd that daily passes! 

 As all that is left of a one-time forest, the tree 

 alone concerns me. Why? To-day, like the 

 poor, we have always with us, but it is not al- 

 ways that we have the past. Here lies the 

 charm of a wool-gathering stroll. This tercen- 

 tenarian chestnut has a word only for those 

 who look backward; and the trail, the Indian, 



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