THE WOODS. 173 



them, graven deeply in capitals, ran the following, 

 which shows the pedagogue to have sighed like a fur- 

 nace in his day as a lover: 



" VALETE ARBORES. 

 VALETE AVES. 

 VALETE FLORES. 

 VALETE AMORES!" 



("Farewell, trees. Farewell, birds. Farewell, flowers. 

 Farewell, loves!") And so the man had had his heart- 

 strings touched by the little god, and had his loves 

 to bid farewell to, as well as the trees, the birds, and 

 the flowers; and this time, too, it was farewell forever. 

 He was a singular man, and, although he taught in an 

 obscure country district, he was well educated, and 

 there was something of the real scholar to the man, as 

 all testify who knew him. It was always thought, in 

 surmise, that he had a history which he did not dis- 

 close was perhaps a writer at work upon some book. 

 It was his habit to wander through the old woods by 

 the hour, reciting aloud stanzas and quotations in 

 Latin, and nearer the homestead he himself had worn 

 a path alone, up and down which he would take his 

 endless beats and make his orations, casting meamvhile 

 lance-like at some mark a few stiff stems of iron weed 

 which he had collected. The other inscription, which 

 encircled the tree in script, rings with patriotic senti- 

 ment, and suggests that perhaps the teacher even then 

 felt a premonition of the impending war between the 

 States; and so it reads: 



"Cominus pugnamns pro patria et libertate et non 

 moriemiir imtlti." 

 (" Together we fight for country and liberty, and 



