A WOODLAND OPTIMIST. 105 



there anything now within its bounds which 

 will yet give rise to new thoughts, new ambi- 

 tions? Has the best been put forth into a per- 

 fect ripeness? Alas, I fear that it is growing 

 fallow, becoming devoid of some element of 

 thought food which must be supplied, yet what 

 that element is or where it may be found only 

 the fates know, only the future can tell, and 

 both fates and the future are forever silent, 



Monday, June 12. " Che-wer-eet, che-wer-eet, 

 che-wer-eet," was the first sound to break in 

 upon my consciousness this morn. It was the 

 matin call of my old friend the Carolina wren. 

 "Life is sweet, life is sweet, it is sweet" he re- 

 iterated again and again, and for him on this 

 June morn he doubtless sang the truth. Going 

 forth I found him taking time off between bites 

 to serenade me thus. He was flitting and teeter- 

 ing through the interstices of a near-by brush 

 pile : 



Pecking now at this, now at that; 



Swallowing a spider and then a gnat. 



Seeing me gazing at him he too stopped and 

 stared a few seconds, then head upward, from 

 the full strength of his tiny lungs, the volume 

 of song welled forth. 



After breakfast I go up the valley and lounge 

 for an hour on the slope of the hill just above 

 the stream. A flood of memory sweeps my soul 



