64 WASTE-LAND WANDERINGS. 



gust, I admit they prove an early fall, but for them- 

 selves only. 



But I am on my way to the boat, and propose to go 

 " 'cross lots," if so be it the meadows will afford a foot- 

 ing. It is not wise to do, except at this time of year, so 

 treacherous is many a grassy spot when the springs are 

 full. And after a mile or more of tramping over soft 

 ground, how one longs for a solid rock to stand upon ! 

 An uncertain footing is a source of weariness not only 

 to the flesh but to the mind. Try poetizing over some 

 gorgeous meadow bloom while your feet sink deeper 

 and deeper in mud of unknown depth, and tell me then 

 whether I am right or wrong. There is a curious page in 

 my note-book where half the lines rhyme with one four- 

 lettered, vigorous exclamation that custom taboos ; but a 

 soothing word, under some circumstances, nevertheless. 



The nearest rock in place, from where I stand, is some 

 hundreds or thousands of feet beneath the meadow mud ; 

 the next is that at the head of tide-water, where a flinty- 

 hard ledge crops out and ripples the broad and shallow 

 w r aters of the Delaware. 



But if there are no bed-rocks here, we can boast of 

 the next best thing, an occasional bowlder. "What a 

 marvellous history have these transported fragments of 

 some distant mountain ridge, yet how few are willing to 

 listen while their story is being told. The great ice 

 age, when glaciers and floods were mightiest, is to most 

 a myth ; and poor palaeolithic man is denied recognition, 

 in spite of the many traces he has left of his sojourn in 

 the river's valley. 



