THOUGHTS FROM WRITINGS 



gather as it were by smallest particles. 

 The merest grain of sand drifts unseen 

 into a crevice, and by and by another ; 

 after a while there is a heap ; a century, 

 and it is a mound, and then every one 

 observes and comments on it. Time 

 itself has gone on like this; the years 

 have accumulated, first in drifts, then in 

 heaps, and now a vast mound, to which 

 the mountains are knolls, rises up and 

 overshadows us. Time lies heavy on the 

 world. The old, old earth is glad to turn 

 from the carkand care of drifted centuries 

 to the first sweet blades of green. — ' The 

 Open Air ' : Out of Doors in February. 



THE moment the eye of the mind 

 is filled with the beauty of 

 things natural, an equal free- 

 dom and width of view come to it. Step 

 aside from the trodden footpath of per- 

 sonal experience, throwing away the 

 petty cynicism born of petty hopes dis- 



18 



