IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 135 



tion of eternity, something we had missed all our 

 lives, and, in missing it, had lost our birthright of 

 quiet hours, calm thought, sweet fellowship, ripen 

 ing character ? The fever and tumult of the world 

 we had left were discords in a strain that had never 

 yielded its music before. 



For nature beats in perfect tune, 

 And rounds with rhyme her every rune, 

 Whether she work in land or sea, 

 Or hide underground her alchemy. 

 Thou canst not wave thy staff in air, 



Or dip thy paddle in the lake, 

 But it carves the bow of beauty there, 



And the ripples in rhymes the oars forsake. 



After one of these long, delicious days in the 

 heart of the pines, Rosalind slipped her hand in 

 mine as we walked slowly homeward. 



&quot;This is the first day of my life,&quot; she said. 



v. 



And this our life, exempt from public haunt, 



Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 



Sermons in stones, and good in everything. 



IT was one of those entrancing mornings when 

 the earth seems to have been made over under 

 cover of night, and one drinks the first draft of a 

 new experience when he sees it by the light of a 

 new day. Such mornings are not uncommon in 

 Arden, where the nightly dews work a perpetual 



