FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 53 



painter, the musician, the divino, the man 

 of affairs, each at home and each an equal 

 citizen of this true republic, following the 

 bent of his own inclination quietly and un 

 disturbed. 



When my stint had been accomplished, 

 and the time for relaxation had arrived, 

 soothed by the sense of leaving a completed 

 task, what reward could possibly be more 

 inviting than a soft easy-chair beside an 

 incandescent lamp, and the latest instal 

 ment of the serial story for which we all 

 impatiently wait from month to month ? 



In these latter days we have heard much 

 of naturalism, and especially of naturalism 

 in fiction, and there seems to have been a 

 very strong assumption upon the part of 

 many that naturalism is necessarily nasty. 

 I repudiate the thought with all the vigour 

 of my being. Nature is pure, and nothing 

 can compare for naturalism with purity. 

 Give us the blue skies, the fresh winds, the 

 sturdy trees, the dainty flowers, the bright 

 clean souls and loving hearts. 



&quot;f is as oasy now for the heart to be true 

 As for grass to be green or skies to be blue, 

 &quot;Tis the natural way of living. 



Let us drink deep draughts of this natu- 



