118 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 



Now the quail sings again, this time in 

 two notes, and now the hummer is again in 

 the orange-tree. And all the while the red- 

 bird whistles in the shrubbery. He feels 

 the beauty of the day. If I were a bird, I 

 would sing with him. From far away comes 

 the chant of a pine-wood sparrow. I can 

 just hear it. 



This is a place for dreams and quietness. 

 Nothing else seems worth the having. Let 

 us feel no more the fever of life. Surely 

 they are the wise who seek Nirvana ; who 

 insist not upon themselves, but wait absorp- 

 tion reabsorption into the infinite. 

 The dead have the better part. I think of 

 the stirring, adventurous man who built 

 these walls and dug these canals. His life 

 was full of action, full of journeyings and 

 fightings. Now he is at peace, and his 

 works do follow him into the land of f or- 

 getfulness. Blessed are the dead. Blessed, 

 too, are the bees, the birds, the butterflies, 

 and the lizards. Next to the dead, perhaps, 

 they are happy. And I also am happy, for 

 I too am under the spell. To me also the 

 sun and the air are sweet, and I too, for to- 

 day at least, am careless of the world and 

 all its doings. 



