The Rambles of an Idler 



a new dam, a new mill, and all I can hope for is 

 that the falling water will sing the old song that 

 helped to while away many a summer afternoon. 

 The same song, that nothing can improve, over 

 and over, high and low, gentle and fierce, sooth- 

 ing in summer, pitilessly harsh in winter and, 

 though for more than a century it has kept si- 

 lence at arm's length, never wearisome. A tonic 

 sound, like the whole souled whistle of a cardinal 

 grosbeak, which restores what is lost, which 

 rebuilds what has fallen. 



The shadows lengthen as I wander on. The 

 light fades from beneath the cedars, and the 

 thrush, moved by the stillness of the sunset 

 hour, sings his marvellous song. One by one 

 the glittering stars appear. Another of these 

 blessed May days, passed into history. 



If we could see ourselves as seen by others, 

 would we do so? Is not opinion of self perched 

 upon so high a pinnacle that it overlooks all else 

 in the universe? Men will cease to talk about 

 themselves only when the Heavens fall. They 

 do not deal in facts so much as their personal 

 relation thereto, and it is the former only that 

 concerns the average listener. There are ex- 



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