128 BOULDER REVERIES. 



every instant during the day, is the cry of wood- 

 pecker, jay or crow, or the plaintive call of the 

 wood peewee as it gazes on every side of its 

 swinging perch in search of flying atom. At 

 times these ceaseless iterations of bird and in- 

 sect grate on my soul. Again, they are un- 

 heeded, for the wings of thought have flown far 

 back to other scenes when the mercury of youth 

 and hope stood high in the glass of time. 



If, as we grow older, we could retain the 

 youthful habit of being content with little 

 things, of feeling a glow of pleasure when some 

 streak of luck brings us an unexpected trifle, 

 our later lives would be far more happily spent. 

 But the average man is so constructed that the 

 more he has, the more he wants. Contentment, 

 therefore, never rests at his gate, but ever hovers 

 just beyond. He is always seeking to place his 

 hand upon her, but whenever he thinks himself 

 within reaching distance, she suddenly and 

 deftly eludes his grasp. Thus the demon of dis- 

 content is forever with us. 



As I leave the boulder glade and start toward 

 the crest of the woodland cliff, I am suddenly 



