The Poetry of Shelter. 115 



might gather and the storm break at last, but I 

 would not for such reason part company with 

 the sparrows in the hedge. And the storm did 

 break. A few admonishing drops came gently 

 down, and, tapping the tough leaves of the oak, 

 made known their mission. It was their busi- 

 ness to announce that it was going to rain. 

 Receiving the message, I took shelter in an 

 ideal spot, in a great hollow willow- tree stand- 

 ing where the creek bends almost at a right 

 angle. This old tree, for years past, has been 

 put to many uses. It has often been the store- 

 house of picnic parties, and years ago had been 

 used as a stove, the effect of which was to char 

 the walls and roof and make them no longer 

 available as homes of ants, spiders, and un- 

 canny creeping things. I had been here before, 

 and it is ever a pleasure to feel that one is 

 not a stranger. To feel that we are strangers 

 deadens our appreciation of whatever we see. 

 I filled the hollow in the tree without discom- 

 fort, and before me was the winding creek, with 

 alternate pasture and woodland reaching to its 

 shore. At the time there was no apparent cur- 

 rent, but in a few moments the tide turned. 



