3Bs a moo&lan5 Spring 



enough light here to read Keats by — the 

 light of neither sea nor land, the soft 

 crepuscle of a thick forest. 



An expert bookworm could see even in 

 that shade and from a distance of ten paces 

 that the volume I am nursing has opened 

 of its own accord at the beginning of the 

 " Ode to a Nightingale " ; and here the 

 pages are much thumbed and the words 

 dim, as if worn thin by much reading. The 

 leaves lie flat to the left and right, with an 

 expression of habitual attitudinizing for 

 effect, .a mannerism caught during the 

 quarter-century that, as boy and man, I 

 have been preferring this particular ode ; 

 indeed, the pages always part at this place 

 and spread themselves complacently limp — 

 conscious, one would imagine, of the allure- 

 ment they possess for the present reader. 



In nature's solitude is the place where 

 you can read this " Ode to a Nightin- 

 gale " with full appreciation of its art. 

 The library, the lamp, the must and bou- 

 quet of fine learning, do not afford the 

 adequate entourage for a bit of such ex- 

 quisite literary craftsmanship. Indeed, the 

 184 



