134 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



pyramids were built, are the things and 

 thoughts with which I would deal. The others 

 are ashes or clay in comparison with the living 

 green of the present. No man was ever wise, 

 ever original, ever learned who could do little 

 but quote poetry and rehash other men's ideas. 

 But if out of the recesses of his soul he can be- 

 get new poetry, new ideas, or new thoughts of 

 the great world about him, then is he original, 

 then alone is he worthy the high consideration 

 of his fellow-men. 



Wind,, drizzle and mist were never to my 

 liking. When anything is to be done let it be 

 done at once and in the proper manner. This 

 morn I could delight in a pouring rain such as 

 June used to bring when I was a boy, such as 

 it now sometimes brings when I am shut up in 

 the dusty city; but this threatening, this thun- 

 dering, this blustering of J. Pluvius is four- 

 flushing, is bluffing. It keeps one from setting 

 forth, keeps him on the anxious seat in his tent, 

 dissatisfied, undecided. If it were really rain- 

 ing one would know what to do ; if it were clear 

 he would know what to do, but as it is he know- 

 eth not. 



The old cows still bother me much; not by 

 trying to get into my yard, for that wire fence 

 has proven that it is now bull tight, but by 

 coming back each morning when I am away 

 and nosing around my furnace, overturning 



