The Rambles of an Idler 



of crows; as to speech-making, that is my af- 

 fair. To my neighbor this date has no special 

 significance, which is fortunate, for there is 

 nothing in this world that is not ruined by a 

 crowd, not even an anniversary. 



Better, on such a day as this, to be audience 

 than actor. There is something in the air sug- 

 gestive of a holiday. The regular course of 

 affairs appears to have been set aside. Birds 

 whistle with the animation of children at a pic- 

 nic. It is not a day to listen to anyone who 

 discourses on physics or mentions ozone. If 

 one man can bring himself to believe this is the 

 day and date of creation, why should not an 

 other play the fool and keep up the farce? 



Seated at the foot of this old hickory, I call 

 the place Eden because at this moment the sky 

 is blue. This alone is cause for thankfulness. 

 There are masses of white clouds anchored in 

 the east, castles, hills, meadows, and strange 

 shapes of an airy world, white as new-fallen 

 snow and tinged with pink, a picture that can 

 never tire, fancy weaving a new story of it all 

 when next we look. 'Twixt cloudland and the 

 earth sail, in wide-reaching circles, red-tailed 

 hawks. Birds, these, prosy enough, nearer at 



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