1 06 BY- WA YS AND BIRD-NO TES, 



the true maker s labor limce may appear in 

 their works. Even Poe and Hawthorne dis 

 close too heavy a trace of the must and mould 

 of the closet. Each stands alone, inimitable, 

 in his field, but lacking that balmy, odorous 

 freshness of the morning woods and pastures, 

 when the convolvulus and the violet are in 

 bloom. We should have little faith in the 

 bird-song described by either one of those 

 wizards of romance. 



&quot; The skies they were ashen and sober, 

 The leaves they were crisped and sere,&quot; 



in all their works. Cheerfulness and enthusi 

 asm have always seemed to me to belong of 

 right to the best genius. Shakespeare exempli 

 fies it ; the sublime audacity of Napoleon I. 

 instances it. But Shakespeare was a poacher, 

 and Napoleon loved to dwell out of doors. I 

 hold that communion with Nature generates 

 lofty ideas, feeds noble ambitions. The only 

 way to lengthen a yard-measure is to gauge 

 each new length of cloth by the preceding one, 

 and not by the yardstick. The growth will be 

 slow, but amazingly sure. So in Art, if we 

 cast aside the standards and permit such ac 

 cretion as Nature suggests. 



But there must be some excuse for going 

 out alone with Nature other than the avowed 

 purpose of filching her secrets and accumulat 

 ing her suggestions ; for, as a matter of fact, 

 nearly or quite all of the available literary or 

 artistic materials caught from her great reser 

 voirs come without the asking, and at the 

 moment when they are least expected. Then, 

 too, the human mind seems to have no volun 

 tary receptivity. The power of taking in new 



