The Rambles of an Idler 



Quoth the raven, ' ' Nevermore, ' ' and how weird 

 and uncanny is this lover of "Night's Plutonian 

 shore;" but caws the crow, " Evermore " and 

 alas ! we simply grow tired of the iteration. So 

 much, for indolent interpretation, but if judged 

 more justly, the vocabulary of the crow would 

 rouse as much interest as has the raven's. The 

 old story: more wonderful matter in the home 

 valley than in all the mountains beyond; but 

 because they are beyond, the mountains are ver- 

 itable treasures of all we can desire. The mys- 

 terious unknown enslaves us ; that which is fa- 

 miliar, we despise. Ever longing for the im- 

 practicable raven and indifferent to crows. 

 But honors are easy; the crows despise us and 

 with good reason. There is seldom a man who 

 is as cunning as they are. 



A hundred of these fine birds have come in- 

 land from the river. The familiar meadows 

 are now an unfamiliar lake and how they chat- 

 ter over the new conditions! A clamor has 

 arisen that drowns the minor voices of the 

 awakening world. It is the last day of Febru- 

 ary and a south-east wind is blowing. Do the 

 crows know that it is the last day of nominal 

 winter? Whether they keep a record of the 



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