A QUIET MOENING 



" Such was the bright world on the first seventh day." 



Henry Vaughan. 



It is Sunday, May 26, the brightest, pleas- 

 antest, most comfortable of forenoons. I am 

 seated in the sun at the base of an ancient 

 stone wall, near the road that runs along the 

 hillside above the Landaff Valley. Behind 

 me is a little farmhouse, long since gone to 

 ruin. At my feet, rather steeply inclined, 

 is an old cattle pasture thickly strewn with 

 massive boulders. The prospect is one of 

 those that I love best. In the foreground, 

 directly below, is the valley, freshly green, 

 and, as it looks from this height, as level as 

 a floor. Alder rows mark the winding 

 course of the river, and on the farther side, 

 close against the forest, runs a road, though 

 the eye, of itself, would hardly know it. 



Across the valley are the glorious newly 



