CHAPTER SEVEN 



FROM PILLAR TO POST 



The strange fancy for saints' days! He or 

 she is a poor saint who is not entitled to all the 

 year, and, if really worthy of remembrance, to 

 be held in admiration at all seasons. I know 

 not whether any saint is peculiarly honored to- 

 day or not. My calendar, with its trifle of ad- 

 vice, says May 9th, and suggests going out of 

 doors. 



I note, while standing by the door-yard elm, 

 that the warbling rose-breast, from his lofty 

 perch, tells the whole story of this month of 

 May. There are few men that do not need an 

 exemplar and I am thankful not to be an excep- 

 tion. This paragon of song-birds gives me the 

 hint. All I need to be happy is to whistle as I 

 go. Not to disturb the silence by blowing 

 through pursed lips, but letting the heart beat 

 to a merry tune. Many can please themselves 

 and not vex others, by thinking their music. As 



254 



