Uhc TToucb of ITnsptration 



with the current of absolute hfe and glow 

 with tender fervor. 



I have often quoted from Emerson the 

 verses : 



Aloft in secret veins of air 



Blows the sweet breath of song. 



Who has not heard that breath wander- 

 ing overhead on a drowsy summer day? 

 It is not a strain for the physical ear, — the 

 realist never catches it, — but it steals into 

 the soul and masters it like music in a 

 dream. Then, there is a line dropped by 

 Mr. Howells in his youthful days ; it is a 

 perfect picture of young maple-leaves 

 when they are upturned by a frisky 

 springtime wind. He sings of them as 

 being 



Blown silver in the breeze. 



Mr. Lowell's inquiry, 



Oh, what is so rare as a day in June? 



retains its fragrant suggestiveness de- 

 spite the badly rhymed college response : 



Boarding-house beef called "underdone." 

 143 



