56 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



which the God of Nature put into his hands 

 and which he fashioned according to his own 

 ideals. No man ever achieved great success by 

 following. He only who forges to the front, 

 daring to do what other men have said could 

 not be done, daring to be original in thought 

 and deed, he only is the one who lives, not for 

 a day, but for eternity. 



At 6:30 the shadows of eventide are again 

 falling about me, the rays of the sun no longer 

 visible. The quietness of an August eve en- 

 thralls my woodland glade. I sit for half an 

 hour and listen for the semblance of a sound. 

 The stillness is as that of death, as that of the 

 depths of a cavern where no life abounds, the 

 rustle even of a bat's wings absent. Too soon 

 it is for the minstrels of the night to begin to 

 attune their instruments. 



This afternoon was devoted to visitors from 

 the old farm house. The freedom of the camp 

 was theirs, the boulders pointed out, the 

 cuckoo's nest and thicket of prickly ash vis- 

 ited, the trill of the mole cricket heard. In the 

 balmy air of a perfect summer day we saun- 

 tered. We lived, passed contented hours, ate, 

 drank and were merry. What more can a hu- 

 man wish? 



Sunday, August 9. One week ago, this very 

 hour, it was an experiment. This morn it is an 



