IN AN OLD GARDEN 261 



the unnatural cultivated man. Lovers of litera- 

 ture are accustomed to say that they find certain 

 works "helpful" to them; and doubtless, being all 

 intellect, they are right. But we, the less highly 

 developed, are compounded of two natures, and 

 while this spiritual pabulum sustains one, the other 

 and larger nature is starved; for the larger 

 nature is earthly, and draws its sustenance from 

 the earth. I must look at a leaf, or smell the 

 sod, or touch a rough pebble, or hear some natural 

 sound, if only the chirp of a cricket, or feel the 

 sun or wind or rain on my face. The book itself 

 may spoil the pleasure it was designed to give 

 me, and instead of satisfying my hunger, increase 

 it until the craving and sensation of emptiness 

 becomes intolerable. Not any day spent in a 

 library would I live again, but rather some lurid 

 day of labour and anxiety, of strife, or peril, or 

 passion. 



Occupied with this profound question, I scarcely 

 noticed when my shade-sharer, with whom I sym- 

 pathised only too keenly in her restless mood, 

 rose and, lifting the light green curtain, passed 

 out into the sunshine and was gone. Nor did I 

 notice when the little wren ceased singing over- 



