A WHISPER FROM THE PINES. 



THE great storm which swept by us yesterday, 

 lashing the land with its double scourge of 

 wind and rain, has disappeared in the east. 

 The sky is clear of clouds, and instead of the harsh 

 east wind a fresh breeze from the west is drying out the 

 soaked and sodden earth. No spot on all the farm 

 seems so attractive to-day as these pine-woods. 

 They are the peculiar charm and attraction of our 

 neighbourhood. They have become a favourite spot 

 for writing and for study, and many a page of the 

 summer's work will call up, in the review, the sighing 

 of the wind in the tufted boughs and the glint of the 

 sun on the pine-needles. 



To-day I have been studying the grove. Some- 

 how the printed page has lost its fascination, and 

 for the hour, my mind will run along the lines of 

 nature's book, this volume known and read of all men 

 who will take the trouble to open their eyes. And after 

 my readings to-day I confess to a stronger feeling than 

 ever before possessed me, of kinship to these trees, 

 and a blood-relationship running back through count- 

 less ages. It is amazing how many of our family 

 traits are the common inheritance from a past which 



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