170 WOODLAND IDYLS. 



angles of the old fence, and through the under- 

 brush send aloft their tops in search of air and 

 sunshine. 



Here am I lolling away existence. Out there 

 the great world wags on full of strenuous labor 

 to be done. That labor, however, is for the most 

 part of man's making. He has conjured it up 

 during the centuries that have passed while he 

 was being civilized. Before that process began 

 the world was here, he was here, but the only 

 labor he had to perform was to gather his daily 

 food, just as the marmots are attempting to do 

 out in the clover field before me. The world did 

 not create for him the work. He made it for 

 himself while trying to get as far as possible 

 away from nature. 



At one time he delved in metals, if at all, only 

 to get spear heads and arrow points to use in 

 killing game. A few hours each year sufficed 

 to furnish these. Now ten million men and boys 

 work day and night, year in, year out, at met- 

 als, making the so-called necessities and luxuries 

 of commerce, trade and navigation. Is the 

 world better, is man more content, now that he 

 travels by steam and electric power, than when 

 he went a-foot or in a dugout fashioned from 

 the trunk of some monarch of the forest ? 



From the beginning, on the world has wagged, 

 content in its daily work, increasing it not, di- 

 minishing it not, while man each day has added 



