IN THE FOREST OF ARDEN. 145 



thought before I had made it quite clear to my 

 self ; I began to feel the peculiar delight of our 

 comfort in the heart of that great forest when the 

 storm was abroad. The monotone of the rain be 

 came rythmic with some ancient, primeval melody, 

 which the woods sang before their solitude had 

 been invaded by the eager feet of men always 

 searching for something which they do not possess. 

 I felt the spell of that mighty life which includes 

 the tempest and the tumult of winds and waves 

 among the myriad voices with which it speaks its 

 marvelous secret. Half the meaning would go out 

 of Nature if no storms ever dimmed the light of 

 stars or vexed the calm of summer seas. It is the 

 infinite variety of Nature which fits response to 

 every need and mood, renews forever the freshness 

 of contact with her, and holds us by a power of 

 which we never weary because we never exhaust its 

 resources. 



&quot; After all, Rosalind,&quot; I said, &quot; it was not the 

 storms and the cold which made our old life hard, 

 and gave Nature an unfriendly aspect ; it was the 

 things in our human experience which gave tem 

 pest and winter a meaning not their own. In a 

 world in which all hearts beat true, and all hands 

 were helpful, there would be no real hardship in 

 Nature. It is the loss, sorrow, weariness, and dis 

 appointment of life which give dark days their 

 gloom, and cold its icy edge, and work its bitter 

 ness. The real sorrows of life are not of Nature s 



