Interpretations 



is far easier to see too much than too little. 

 The lack of mad-cap, feverish adventure has 

 not occurred to me. The day seemed full, and 

 what seems, is, in the chop-logic of an idle ram- 

 bler. I cannot worry over the niceties of 

 language and the proprieties of thought. Na- 

 ture is intelligible without them, or we think it 

 so, which equally meets our purpose. What the 

 crows and the wren are to Nature is one thing; 

 what they were to me, is quite another. I may 

 have misread, but that did not harm them. 

 They certainly misinterpreted me, but I was 

 not cast down. The truth would scarcely have 

 made the day better. Crows, wren, rambler; 

 all were happy. For each and all the world 

 was as it should be. I have never known bet- 

 ter birds, nor have I aspirations. Blessed are 

 the poor who have no rich relations. They es- 

 cape the pangs of the envious. 



As I find it set down in the almanac, Spring 

 commences at 8 :16 A. M. this twenty-first day of 

 March, and at the proper tick of the clock, I put 

 my best foot forward to see what is or has been 

 the initial movement in Nature, but all to no 

 use. That magic moment was a matter of the 



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