rush of feet that have never grown weary 

 with travel, and the clamour of voices 

 through which immortal youth still shouts 

 to the kindred hills and skies. Into those 

 windows Nature throws all manner of in- 

 vitations, and through them she gets only 

 glances of recognition and longing. There 

 are the fields, the woods, and the hills in 

 one perpetual rivalry of charm; the bird 

 sings in the bough over the window, and 

 on still afternoons the brook calls and calls 

 again. Here one feels anew the eternal 

 friendship between childhood and Nature, 

 and remembers that they only can abide 

 in that fellowship who carry into riper 

 years the self-forgetfulness, the sweet un- 

 consciousness, the open mind and heart of 

 a child. 





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l/U 



