80 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



It matters not to the earth mother of count- 

 less forms whether I wag on with her or not. 

 It matters much to me. She is here for a mil- 

 lion million years, I, perhaps, for less than a 

 score. Unto me, while I remain, she offers her 

 bosom freely. Close to it I can recline as I do 

 this morn. From it I may, by rooting and delv- 

 ing, secure enough of the milk of sustenance to 

 sustain life while here I stay. That is the most 

 she can offer me or any human. Life and noth- 

 ing else had I when I was ushered forth upon 

 her crust. Even life I leave behind when to her 

 I say farewell. For the days which she has 

 suckled me, for the years which have been mine, 

 for the pleasures few or many which she has 

 granted I do her reverent homage. 



My dinner to-day was not of my own cooking. 

 I had dressed my turtle and sent it by the 

 farmer up to the house for his wife to cook. 

 She had a very good stew made of it, a little too 

 thick for good broth. In addition, we had pork 

 sausage, cherry cobbler and other things. The 

 three mentioned were the "pieces de resist- 

 ance," if there can be more than one such. The 

 "other things" were "fillings." The farmer, 

 his wife, or "the old woman" as he invariably 

 calls her, and their daughter-in-law did not par- 

 take very bountifully of the turtle stew. They 

 tasted it, pronounced it good, "something like 



