Short Summer Days. 147 



that stand afar off are shut from view. Nearer 

 it comes, and the pastures fade away, and now, 

 as the sun sinks behind the old oaks that line 

 the creek's wild shores, I stand alone, shut in 

 from all the world, yet not alone. A crested 

 tit, full of faith as to bright hours to-morrow, 

 whistles dull melancholy to the winds and hails 

 me as we stand by the meadow gate, bringing 

 a cheerful message as ever, arguing, in its own 

 sweet, persuasive way, there is always ground for 

 happiness. Every bird is a willing teacher when 

 we are anxious to be taught. An idle whim, 

 perhaps, but I have long held that the crested 

 tit is a philosopher, and insists that we be not so 

 intent upon what is passing away that we see 

 not that which is coming. These are short 

 summer days, it is true, but what of the fulness 

 of approaching autumn ? 



