The Poetry of Shelter. 109 



doomed to carry. On the other hand, to at- 

 tempt to withstand the fury of a raging tempest 

 as does the lonely chestnut in a pasture or the 

 old oak by the roadside is foolhardy. We need 

 adequate shelter, but its value is in proportion 

 to its simplicity. A hollow sycamore has been 

 my safe harbor more than once, and, standing 

 therein while it rained, I felt as an owl must 

 feel, and went home hooting my satisfaction, 

 not humanly shouting it. 



As an episode in a rainy-day ramble, give me 

 an overturned boat under which I can lie while 

 the shower passes. There is rare pleasure in 

 living for a few moments like a meadow-mouse. 

 To be one with the wildness about us is an 

 unending joy, for the memory is too much 

 impressed to have the pictures fade, though you 

 live as long as the myths of tradition. Well I 

 remember, how long ago it boots not to tell, 

 being overtaken by a sudden shower while drift- 

 ing with the current where old Poaetquissings 

 widens to a little lake. Quickly the little craft 

 was turned inshore, and just as the initial pound- 

 ing drops came rattling down the boat was tilted 

 nearly over and I was safely ensconced beneath 



