The Rambles of an Idler 



their moorings, and now they are as islands 

 dotting the surface of a new-born lake. The 

 owl is astir; the bat flits silently above the 

 gloom. Activity increases. The cricket grows 

 noisier as night draws near. Again, it is the 

 busy world. Again, it is the old struggle for 

 gain, rather than the enjoyment of it. But why 

 care ? As I retrace my steps, following the old, 

 familiar path, above the rustling of crisp 

 leaves, above the roar of endless hosts of insect 

 life, I hear a wandering voice. 



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