118 THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 
Now the quail sings again, this time in 
two notes, and now the hummer is again in 
the orange-tree. And all the while the red- 
bird whistles in the shrubbery. He feels 
the beauty of the day. If I were a bird, I 
would sing with him. From far away comes 
the chant of a pine-wood sparrow. I can 
just hear it. 
This is a place for dreams and quietness. 
Nothing else seems worth the having. Let 
us feel no more the fever of life. Surely 
they are the wise who seek Nirvana; who 
insist not upon themselves, but wait absorp- 
tion — reabsorption — into the infinite. 
The dead have the better part. I think of 
the stirring, adventurous man who built 
these walls and dug these canals. His life 
was full of action, full of journeyings and 
fightings. Now he is at peace, and his 
works do follow him — into the land of for- 
getfulness. Blessed are the dead. Blessed, 
too, are the bees, the birds, the butterflies, 
and the lizards. Next to the dead, perhaps, 
they are happy. And I also am happy, for 
I too am under the spell. To me also the 
sun and the air are sweet, and I too, for to- 
day at least, am careless of the world and 
all its doings. 
