Under the Oaks and Elsewhere 



ble of men's voices drowns the babble of a 

 brook. 



Where all is not tame, the wildness is too pro- 

 nounced to conceal itself; but here, where all 

 is apparently shorn of its savage or natural 

 state, the greater tax upon our cunning to dis- 

 cover the little that is left. The plowshare 

 never invades the very edge of the brook's bank, 

 so there is a little strip of earth that is left in 

 peace and the water that ripples by the sunken 

 root of an old tree, runs in the same twisted 

 channel as water found perhaps several cen- 

 turies ago. Here then is a chance for profitable 

 idling. Turn a little brook inside out and you 

 have built a museum. Surely, sufficient unto 

 each day is the wildness thereof. 



As the sun was setting yesterday, the sand at 

 the water's edge was as smooth as the paper 

 upon which I am now writing. There was not 

 a line or a dot upon it. Now, twelve hours 

 later, it is covered with foot-prints of several 

 kinds and yet we speak of this spot as one 

 where all is tame. It would puzzle the most 

 practical hunter to trace back to its lair each of 

 the creatures that came here in the night and it 



249 



