The Eambles of an Idler 



the slave, of thought. Surely, very suggestive 

 of meditation is its song to-day. Howsoever 

 this may be, its music moves me. I am as re- 

 sponsive as the vane to the passing breeze. A 

 few, clear, fife-like notes escape the tangle of a 

 vine-clad nook and the keen air trembles as if 

 the wind had whispered. They bring to mind 

 the magic of May, of spring-tide life and all 

 that filled life's goblet to the brim. An empty 

 glass now and overturned, yet who, when it was 

 held aloft, thought he could drain it? Youth 

 laughs at Father Time. 



Now, almost mute the sparrows in the field, 

 but still I hear their fragments of a song. 

 Wherein can lie the pleasure of a vain regret? 

 Vain to review the past, as they seem doing. 

 Vain to shout in ears that do not hear. I smile 

 now to think of that perfect world which that 

 untaught youth beheld; but the crested tit, so 

 earnestly it sings, seems not to mourn over 

 joys it has tasted. It rejoices ia the recollec- 

 tion thereof ; so it may be better, after all, to be 

 wool-gathering than overly serious. It is well 

 occasionally to play the fool. Wisdom should 

 not be allowed to drain the under-current of 



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