STATE POMOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 63 



Even after I became a man, it was my chief delight to leave be- 

 hind all toil and care, and take a holiday in the forest. A basket 

 well filled with berries was to me all that bags of game are to the 

 hunter, or baskets of fish to the angler. In these midsummer ex- 

 cursions of mine it was a singular fact that when taken alone they 

 were restful and soothing. Companionship destroyed the charm and 

 made a dog of toil. Alone, did I sa}-? No, not alone — Did not the 

 flowers look up at me through dewy eyes of pearl? Did not the 

 birds sing for me, the leaves whisper as I passed ? Did not all na- 

 ture speak to me in mysterious, sympathetic tones? Did not the 

 trees bend low to read ray thoughts and tell them to each other? In 

 the midst of the woods there was a little meadow — russet with yield- 

 ing moss and yellow with golden rod — like an enchanted lake within 

 a continent of verdure. 



The beach was white with wild clematis, and pale wild flowers 

 gleamed like pearls upon its bosom. 



I see it again to-day, in fancy, 

 Peaceful, still and sweet. 



I see beyond it the old road made by the lumbermen. Long since 

 the trees locked arms above it ; and it seems a portal to the realm 

 of silence and darkness. I enter. No sunlight penetrates this ave- 

 nue except by stealth. The giant trees are hoary with the moss of 

 age. The partridge whirrs away amidst the labyrinths. The noisy 

 squirrel becomes silent, and, ensconced behind some sheltering 

 bough, peeps out at me from his concealment ; the blue jay cries in 

 terror as he flies, and the solemn owl interrogates, who? who? Be- 

 hind me the portal shrinks and fades. A good mile further on the 

 straight road divides into crooked wood paths that soon lose them- 

 selves. I follow one a little and turn around a promontory of ledge 

 into the head of a ravine where is a tiny spring. A carpet of soft, 

 delicate green moss has here crept over every rock and every fallen 

 trunk and every bit of earth. I lean against a tree and look in vain 

 for any sign of man's invasion. I hear a gentle breathing among the 

 leaves and feel a movement of the trunk as 'twere a pulse. Nearer 

 to the peaceful heart of nature man can never come. This is the 

 actual, the living forest. Down this ravine at every step the e^-e sees 

 beaut}'. Every glen and grotto is decorated and hung with vines 

 and ferns that are so delicate they wave without a zephyr and trem- 

 ble even in this holy calm. As I advance it widens, the walls sink 

 lower and are gone. Presently the sun glimmers through the tree 



