78 THE FACE OF THE FIELDS 



labor for a living, much less to think. My other 

 teachers all are; they are all professional think- 

 ers; their thoughts are words: editorials, lectures, 

 sermons, livings. I read them or listen to 

 them. The toad sits out the hour silent, think- 

 ing, but I know not what, nor need to know. To 

 think God's thoughts after Him is not so high as 

 to think my own after myself. Why then ask his 

 of the toad, and so interrupt these of mine ? In- 

 stead we will sit in silence and watch Altair burn 

 along the shore of the sky, and overhead Arctu- 

 rus, and the rival fireflies flickering through the 

 leaves of the apple tree. 



The darkness has come. The toad is scarcely 

 a blur between me and the stars. It is a long look 

 from him, ten feet above me, on past the fireflies 

 to Arcturus and the regal splendors of the North- 

 ern Crown as deep and as far a look as the 

 night can give, and as only the night can give. 

 Against the distant stars, these ten feet between me 

 and the toad shrink quite away ; and against the 

 light far off yonder near the pole, the firefly's little 

 lamp becomes a brave but a very lesser beacon. 



There are only twenty-four hours to the day 

 to the day and the night! And how few are 



