104 BOULDER REVERIES. 



This morn his heams shine with unwonted 

 vigor upon all things terrestrial which are ex- 

 posed to them. Fiercely they fall. Deeply they 

 penetrate, forcing out the moisture, drying up 

 the sap, withering the living tissue. Out there, 

 only a few yards away, their reflection, from the 

 side of bare stump and barer stone, is seen upon 

 the water from which they are pulling upward 

 many a molecule of moisture. Here, where I 

 recline, they are shut off by the thick foliage of 

 the white oak which, like a great umbrella, 

 shields me from their potent force. Out there 

 is work, the rush, the turmoil of life. Here is 

 peaceful quiet, rest, contentment. Blow, oh 

 breeze, balmily against my brow. Waft from 

 my soul every shadow of discontent. Let the 

 cicada lull me, as it does this moment, with that 

 song which tells of the full tide of the mid-sum- 

 mer that song which breathes ever of happy 

 days of leisure, when the air is cooled by balmy 

 breeze and all nature seems at rest. 



And yet, what is that resting spell but the 

 forerunner, the foreboder of decay, of death? 

 The leaves on trees and shrubs, the blades of 



