MYSTICAL PASTURES 233 



ing haze of romanice, and in the crystal stillness, 

 the happy aloofness of the place, the conscious- 

 ness goes groping for the unseen. It may be 

 that by digging and grubbing I might unearth the 

 veritable home of my chipmunks, trace their cun- 

 ning runways under stone and through fog and 

 brush and prove that there is nothing of the theo- 

 sophist about them. But not for worlds would 

 I do it, nor would I believe it if I found them. 

 Therein lies the inscrutability of faith. 



In the golden morning glow the sounds of the 

 far and near world seem to come without inter- 

 ference from intervening space and the roar of 

 the steam whistle on the liner at sea, eighteen 

 miles away over rough hilltops, is as intimate as 

 the drumming of the partridge in the swamp, 

 scarcely more than a stone's throw away. In- 

 deed it is less aloof, far less mysterious. Its 

 raucous bellow is soothed to a deep musical tone 

 by distance. It speaks of the human touch and 

 the man-made whistle. I may measure, define, 

 place it ; know the steamer that it speaks for and 

 the man that pulls the throttle cord. I may find 

 the pitch, touch the identical note on guitar or 

 cornet. I have neither wind nor stringed instru- 



