130 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



ing rod there, and its complement, "death," 

 results. The earth receives back that which it 

 gave, but the sun is forever a loser, for the en- 

 ergy returns not to him but is dissipated, ren- 

 dered impotent, becomes a part of that great 

 ethereal space which intervenes between us and 

 the farthermost limits to which the human mind 

 can glimpse. 



Instead of going a-fishing this afternoon I set 

 up a barber shop beneath a hickory tree, and 

 after working at that trade for fifteen minutes, 

 put on my better clothes and went with J. M. 

 to town. There I saw a number of old acquaint- 

 ances, among them two old sweethearts of my 

 boyhood days, and how age had changed 

 them ! One of them, however, walked the streets 

 erect, as though she owned the earth, which she 

 does in part. The other was more bent, but 

 had the same old cheery smile, the smile of long 

 ago. Better, far better thus to smile than to 

 walk the earth with a mien as though all others 

 were your hirelings and your serfs. 



Back to camp at seven and after supper I lie 

 on the turf for an hour and dawdle away ex- 

 istence. The breeze brings to me from some- 

 where the odors of ripening wheat and new 

 mown hay. Here the dreamer can dream and 

 the idler revel in the fancies of his brain. The 

 blue of the sky, star-studded, is overhead, the 

 green of the sod beneath my body. The world 



