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CHAPTER XVIII 



MYSTICAL PASTURES 



Two century-old pasture pines shelter my fav- 

 orite sleeping spot in the pasture, and croon sol- 

 emn, mystical tunes all night long. If I could but, 

 with my dull ear grown finer, some day learn to 

 interpret these I might grow wise with the yet 

 unfathomed wisdom of the universe. Their 

 runes are not of the gentle, vivid life that thrills 

 below them. Before the little creatures of the 

 pasture world were created, before pines grew 

 upon earth, the words they sing were set to the 

 sagas of vast space, rhythmic runes of unremem- 

 bered ages taught by the great winds of the world 

 to these patriarchs that seem to tell them over 

 and over lest they forget. They tower virid and 

 virile. They stretch wide arms over the pasture 

 people in benediction and sheltering love, but they 

 are not of them. The reading of the deep riddle 

 of the universe has made them prophets and seers 

 and they dwell alone in their dignity. I may 



make my home beneath their sheltering shade, 



228 



