From Pillar to Post 



one. We have had our roses; now it is the 

 ruddy cheek of the apple. A fair exchange, 

 and we do not return empty handed from a 

 ramble. I remember the beautiful blossom of 

 the oak and am equally pleased with the pol- 

 ished acorn. I recall the frail flowers that 

 could be only looked upon, but many a berry 

 and seed pod now can be handled safely. The 

 sense of touch is gratified. In May we discover 

 beauty; in October we carry it home triumph- 

 antly. 



Mid-afternoon now, and all things idle. Even 

 the lithe branches of the weeping willow move 

 only in their dreams. The passing breeze dis- 

 turbs nothing in its path. Quiet prevails ; not 

 one distracting sound reaches me, yet there is 

 not absolute silence. As when a long-forgotten 

 song comes back to us, and another day is pic- 

 tured in the mind, I hear a few, faint, uncon- 

 nected notes, a fragment of springtide music. 

 I look in vain for the bird that utters it. Every 

 tree and bush beneath it is alike deserted. I 

 hear a wandering voice. 



As deftly as the skilled musician touches the 

 keys of the piano or draws the bow across the 



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