180 A MOUNTAIN-SIDE RAMBLE. 



taken up with the peacefulness of the pas- 

 toral scene into which I had so happily 

 emerged, and was in no mood to envy any- 

 body. How bright and cheerful the rag- 

 worts and buttercups looked, and what 

 sweet and homelike music the robin made, 

 singing from one of the apple-trees ! The 

 cool north wind wafted the spicy odor of 

 the cinnamon roses to my nostrils ; but 

 alas for the prosaic fact ! the same cool 

 wind struck through my saturated gar- 

 ments, bidding me move on. The pessi- 

 mistic preacher was right when he said, 

 *' Truly the light is sweet, and a pleasant 

 thing it is for the eyes to behold the sun." 

 I wonder whether he was ever bewildered 

 in a dark wood. From boyhood I have 

 loved the forest, with its silence, its shad- 

 ows, and its deep isolation, but for the pres- 

 ent I had had my fill of such mercies. 



As I came out upon the highway, it 

 occurred to me what Emerson says of 

 Thoreau, that " he could not bear to 

 hear the sound of his own steps, and there- 

 fore never willingly walked in the road." 

 My own taste, I was obliged to admit, 

 was somewhat less fastidious. Indeed, my 



