MY WOODLAND INTIMATES 



my friend and I, and gazed on the glories of earth 

 and sky. Time is forgotten in moments like 

 these, and thoughts wander far into mystical 

 realms; but a sweet, familiar voice led us gently 

 back to things of earth. It was the little brook 

 calling and gurgling from its bed among the 

 grasses: "Good-night, Good-night." 



In Nature's open book, 



An epic is the sea ; 

 A lyric is the brook. 



Lyrics for me.* 



You have no doubt speculated more than once 

 regarding the fate of the little people at the far- 

 off table d'hote. In the absence of their faithful 

 four-footed guardian they are being well protect- 

 ed and the provision supply continues as when 

 we were with them. I hear that the bungalow 

 has its usual frequenters, and circles generally are 

 much as they were when we left. 



But in the grove, as here, the beautiful sum- 

 mer is already on the wane. Bird-songs are ceas- 

 ing, the days are shortening although almost 

 imperceptibly and the golden-rod is in bloom. 

 The moon of the falling leaves is not many weeks 



* Frank Dempster Sherman, in Lyrics for the Lute. 

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