The Rambles of an Idler 



there is the charm of a spot where the Indians 

 had gathered and left imperishable traces of 

 their one-time sojourn. I fill my pockets with 

 many pretty pieces and march off, head up, the 

 very lord of that particular speck on the broad 

 map of creation. The farmer-owner has his 

 pork and corn, but the harvest I have gathered 

 is beyond him. I do not ask permission; why 

 should I? His cupidity might be aroused and 

 I denied entrance. So I go on my way rejoic- 

 ing as he goes on his. His the worry and the 

 work to lift the mortgage; mine the joy and the 

 wholesome exercise to lift the relics. "Who is 

 the true owner of the land? 



I know a brook that never fails to sing, its 

 home a cliff-side shaded by old trees. Eibboned 

 clay and glistering white sand make the walls 

 and floor of this enchanting spot, and many a 

 bird tarries long to sound its praises. The 

 winter sunshine lingers lovingly and the frost 

 but ornaments with ciystals the twigs of spice- 

 wood and weights the unwilted ferns with 

 gems. He who takes a mid-winter walk finds it 

 an ideal inn. It is always full of good cheer. 

 As an acre of ground it is my neighbor's prop- 

 erty, but I have been its owner for many a long 



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