258 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



such nights with the senses aquiver with expecta- 

 tion of the unknown I fail. I dare say the fox 

 that slips along the winding paths at dawn and 

 the little screech owl that calls lonelily to his 

 mate note without noticing these and many other 

 things in which our human perception fails. 

 Man cultivates his brains to the dulling of his 

 senses and builds a wall of useless possessions, 

 attainments and entertainment about him till he 

 hears only a few things and sees but through 

 tiny chinks like the prisoner in a dungeon. Yet 

 we are not altogether endungeoned. We are be- 

 ginning to know our danger and cry "back to 

 the woods," which may yet be the slogan of our 

 next emancipation. It is a long path back for 

 some of us and to cover it at a bound has its 

 dangers. The earthworm shrivels in the sudden 

 sun and to leap from the city block to the depths 

 of the woods is to suffer from the "growing 

 pains" of awakening, atrophied senses. The 

 half-way ground is the pasture which once was 

 the forest, which later was man's, and where now 

 nature and human-nature mingle in friendly 

 truce. In the depths of the woods the town 

 draws me toward itself. In the city I long for 

 the woods. In the pasture is the smiling truce 



