FROM RIVER-OOZE TO TREE-TOP 



THERE are many lovers of the out-of-doors 

 who court her in her robes of roses and in 

 her blithe and happy hours of bird-song only. 

 Now a lover that never sees her barefoot in the 

 meadow, that never hears her commonplace 

 chatter at the frog-pond, that never finds her in 

 her lowly, humdrum life among the toads and 

 snakes, has little genuine love for his mistress. 



To know the pixy when one sees it, to call the 

 long Latin name of the ragweed, to exclaim over 

 the bobolink's song, to go into ecstasies at a glori- 

 ous sunset, is not, necessarily, to love nature at 

 all. One who does all this sincerely, but who 

 stuffs his ears to the din of the spring frogs, is 

 in love wijh nature's pretty clothes, her dainty 

 airs and fine ways. Her warm, true heart lies 

 deeper down. When one has gone down to that, 

 then a March without peepers will be as lone- 

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