The Rambles of an Idler 



and bronze and purple of its anticipatory 

 growth. Perhaps the birds have noticed that 

 the daffodils are above ground but I for one am 

 not sure and I pin no faith on the assertions of 

 those who are unqualifiedly positive. I will not 

 deny that every frog and bird, this eventful day, 

 is wiser than Solomon as to weather, season and 

 all that is to be, but I am not. There have been 

 too many snow storms in April that I cannot 

 forget, and a snow-drift in May through which 

 I wallowed to pick dog- wood blossoms. Man's 

 memory as to the past makes him conjectural as 

 to the future and there it ends with him, but 

 every bird, this morning, poses as a prophet. 

 So, at least, I interpret each and all of them. 

 In such light they are the more companionable 

 and that means much. There is a vast deal of 

 satisfaction to be derived from ignorance or 

 misinterpretation, when mathematical demon- 

 stration is impracticable. I am not necessarily 

 unhappy because Nature may be making a fool 

 of me. I take what seems to me to be a rational 

 view of what is going on. We have but to 

 clothe with plausibility any outcome of the im- 

 agination and it will pass for a fact. All that 

 we need to remember is that the future may 



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