80 BATS OUT OF DOORS. 



Hurrying from town to village, and skirting many a 

 piny wood, oak opening, and dismal swamp, I reached 

 May's Landing late in the evening ; due south from my 

 home a small fraction more than a degree, and, by the 

 geologist's map, just sixty feet nearer to the ocean's level. 



The unremitting whistle of a caged cardinal roused 

 me at early dawn, and, to solve the all-important question 

 of the weather probabilities, I took my first day-time glance 

 at the village, so far as peeping through the slatted shutter 

 would permit. 



I found myself practically in another world. Every 

 tree had a foreign look, although but oaks and pines and 

 gum trees, such as I have at home. In spite of the botan- 

 ists' assertions, they were not the same in appearance. 

 The soil and environment had wrought a nameless some- 

 thing in them that one could see, yet not describe. Such 

 white and " turkey " oaks as shade the village street and 

 cluster about the churches and court-yard do not grow 

 in my own neighborhood, but recalled rather the tower- 

 ing tulip trees that overtop all other growths upon the 

 wooded hill-sides of my home. 



The rambler wisely contents himself with moderate 

 pleasure, and is soothed by the chipper's trill when 

 thrushes fail to sing ; but still he ever hopes that his for- 

 tune may be bettered and the silence broken by his wor- 

 shiped favorites. This undercurrent of desire for a cli- 

 macteric experience holds good with every feature of the 

 outdoor world; and while I find abundant joy in what 

 old trees are near at hand, even if they be not large, my 

 constant hope is that every new direction that I take may 

 lead to others and perfect of their kind. Of many spe- 

 cies there are such trees, but scattered so widely that but 

 one can be seen each day ; and of these, in numbers, the 

 white oak falls to the bottom of the list, though first in 

 beauty of all our forest trees. 



