tude of reflection! What if one could 

 have it all in this iron age ? For my own 

 day's outing with my bird-tackle and Hor- 

 ace, I shall have to work at double stint 

 for a whole week. Indeed, the desk-obH- 

 gation weighs on me too often in the midst 

 of the infrequent recreative delights which 

 come by way of stolen interviews with 

 nature. 



In spite of a determination to be wholly 

 wild, careless, and free, the sense of truancy 

 steals over me. I must make money ; for 

 I am an American. The scribbler must 

 live and thrive as well as the best, and it 

 is not possible to live and thrive on marsh 

 air and bird-study. Doubtless there is 

 something in our civilization which en- 

 genders a coarse practicality. We are 

 trying to write practical poetry, practical 

 novels, practical dramas ; we are painting 

 practical pictures. And the whole end 

 and aim of art would seem to be money, 

 money, money. The target now shining 

 against the slope of Parnassus is a well- 

 stuffed purse. 



But we are a jolly lot, we latter-day 

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