his garden for his recreation; and then (I don't care 

 by what prompting) let him study the lay of his neigh- 

 bor fields, woods, and orchards until he knows every 

 bird and beast, every tree-hole, earth-hole, even the 

 times and places of the things that gruw in the 

 ground ; let him do this through the seasons of the 

 year, — for two or three years, — and he will know 

 how to enjoy a woodchuck; he will understand many 

 of the family affairs of his chipmunks ; he will re- 

 cognize and welcome back his bluebirds ; he will love 

 and often listen to the solemn talk of his pines. 



All of this may be petty prying, not communion 

 at all ; it may be all moonshine and sentiment, not 

 science. But it is not cant and self-deception, — in 

 the hearts of thousands of simple, sufficient folk, 

 who know a wood thrush when they hear him, and 

 whose woodpaths are of their own wearing. And if 

 it is not communion with nature, I know that it is 

 at least real pleasure, and rest, peace, contentment, 

 red blood, sound sleep, and, at times, it seems to me, 

 something close akin to religion. 



