24 BOULDEK REVERIES. 



I celebrate. I listen not to the booming of the 

 cannon but to the warble of the vireo ; not to the 

 burst of eloquence from human lips but to the 

 cackling note of the rain-crow ; not to the eagle's 

 scream but to the shriller, cry of the red-tailed 

 hawk. . . 



Breezes blow balmily up from the southward. 

 Great waves of air beat and surge about me. 

 Large black ants crawl over me, and an occa- 

 sional wood-tick creeps with snail-like pace 

 along my bare skin but ant and tick are only 

 fellow creatures of the earth, come to do me 

 homage or to seek what of sustenance they may 

 gain from my veins. 



The ants have their nest or home somewhere 

 about the roots of the red oak below me, and 

 they run swiftly over the bark of both it and the 

 white oak; how high I know not perhaps to 

 the very tips of the topmost branches. When- 

 ever I recline against the bole of either tree, 

 they make free to use my body as a new. path- 

 way, roaming over it without seeming fear in 

 search of pastures new. In numbers, however, 

 they are few, 'and as they never bite I pay little 



