The Rambles of an Idler 



and an orchid that gives rise to a pleasant 

 thought is not to be despised. I doubt if a field 

 of com is the climax of the earth's ambition. 



Much besides moss is here, really, but the lat- 

 ter is everywhere rather conspicuous. True 

 greatness is never overawed by the clamor of 

 the insensate crowd, and so with the moss upon 

 the forest floor. The mature fruit of a century 

 stands for more than the quick growth of a sea- 

 son. It has a seigniorial right no upstart can 

 successfully dispute. Better a handful of moss 

 than a cart-load of weed. 



In the minds of many, all that I have said 

 will not suffice to drive away the impression 

 that a forest floor is monotonous. Accepting my 

 facts, if not my philosophy, they will ask, 

 "What next?" I fear this eagerness for 

 abundant novelty is not always indicative of 

 vast assimilative power. All that a forest floor 

 stands for is not realized in a moment. It 

 should stimulate thought rather than please the 

 eye; but this is too prosaic a view for the on- 

 rushing sightseer — seldom a seer in any other 

 sense. However, if variety must be had, here 

 it is in the damp earth, where the waters of a 

 struggling spring have vainly tried to form a 



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