VII. 



THE RAMBLE 



The Ramble! How altogether lovable it is! There 

 is always some spot in every park that is invested with 

 a peculiar charm. Some subtilty of seclusion and beauty 

 which draws the nature lover to its haunts. Its very 

 air is full of contentment and peace and rest from the 

 whirlpool of life that is seething in the great city be- 

 yond. Such a spot surely is the Ramble. Its quiet 

 nooks, its easy paths wandering, seemingly without 

 thought, beside the still waters of the Lake or some 

 sleeping pool over which the grasses and reeds bend 

 to see their images ; these beguile the very spirit from 

 you and set free the swift, aspiring thoughts in new 

 flights like the rush of birds skyward. 



Come here in the spring, when the smell of earth 

 mold rises with a fragrance that cannot be described ; 

 when the dazzling April sun sends a glisten of silver 

 over the fallen leaves or touches crisp, dry branches of 

 the leafless trees with a flame of crystal fire; or when 

 the drowsy summer stirs with gentle breezes that sift in 

 from the Lake, softly touching all the leaves to whis- 

 pering music ; when birds shoot through the green like 

 bolts of light, when the cicada startles the serene silence 

 with his rattle. But, I think, this spot is loveliest, 

 perhaps, on one of the soft, hazy, Indian-summer days 



