,„;' P R E F A C E 



T 



HERE is a sprig of balsam on our 

 desk, and it stifles the sickening odors 

 from the reeking streets. 



" '77s the silence of the Forest 

 Cro'wding in upon oar doors/' 



and as the associations born of its perfume fill our 

 brain to the exclusion of everything else, what care 

 we for musty papers, stocks and bonds, bank books 

 and checks, bills and duns, or the tiresome ring of 

 the telephone bell, the monotonous ticking of the 

 telegraphic instruments, the stupid contents of ledgers, 

 the columns of interminable* figures, the wording of 

 perfunctory letters, or any of the wheels which com- 

 pose the senseless artificialities of modern life ? 



Above the hum of the multitude, the roar of 

 the elevated trains, the harsh clang of trolley car 

 bells, the vile oaths of truckmen, and the insane 

 medley of city noises, there comes to us sweet and 

 clear, the voice of dear old Mother Nature, bidding 



