OUTDOORS 



reed-fretted rivulets the very pipes of Pan. 

 Over and over the strains rise, fall, and 

 waver, to break forth again and again. And 

 well may you listen, far from the roads, far 

 from the town, in nature's secret cloister, to 

 the June-spun tissue of the music of the bobo- 

 links 



" Crying 'Phew, shew, Bob-o'-Lincoln! 

 See, see, Wadolincoln; 

 Down among the tickle-tops, 

 Hiding in the buttercups, 

 I know the saucy chap, 

 I see his shining cap, 



Bobbing in the clover there. See! See! See! 

 Bobolink, 

 Whisk-o'-dink, 

 Tom Denny, wait, wait, wait.' " 



This is the stone-wall. Nine miles, and we 

 are half-way round. We have loafed, we 

 have walked, we have observed. Honestly, 

 now, would you have seen one-tenth as much 

 from the road? Would you have lugged 

 your wheel with you into all the by-ways and 

 nooks where we have been to-day? What do 

 you think of walking as a lost art, anyway? 



