142 BOULDEK REVERIES. 



man than worthy thoughts snatched from ob- 

 livion by a ready pen ? I can go to my library, 

 take down my journals and see before me the 

 product of my brain cells in some of those old 

 days when hope reigned supreme within my 

 soul and nature smiled assent. If these gray 

 boulders, on which the moss is the greenest, 

 most alive plant I have seen this afternoon, are 

 not my friends, then have I none within the 

 bounds of this old pasture. Why the presence of 

 these old moss-covered erratics adds to the po- 

 tency of my thoughts I know not, unless it be 

 because the shadows of untold centuries lurk 

 beside them and the vigor of the great ice age 

 enters into and becomes a part of my being. 



The woods are silent as the grave this gray 

 December day. The spirit of the Christ-child 

 moves not through their aisles. No leaves there 

 are to rustle in the breeze, no breeze to sway 

 even the twigs, no birds now chirping their love 

 notes, no hum or drone of insects' wings. Only 

 the gray clouds, damp earth, decaying leaves 

 and the moss-covered boulders, to meet and greet 

 my soul. 



