From Pillar to Post 



Had we never heard the songs of birds in 

 May, songs anticipating the triumph of love, 

 or listened to the songs of June, the grand 

 chorus of love triumphant, we should find no 

 lack of merit in the quiet melodies of an August 

 afternoon; but Memory holds us to the past 

 with the grip of an iron hand. We hear, but 

 not without keen recollection, of an earlier 

 song. This is sobering, but not to the point of 

 sadness. We are not cast down, but walk at a 

 slowet gait. We contrast all we see and hear 

 with all seen and heard. It may not be what 

 we wish, but there is no escape. 



The meadows this afternoon were less of the 

 earth, earthy, than usual. It was dreamland 

 rather, and, walking thereon, I was less a ram- 

 bler than a dreamer, and as such I reached the 

 wooded slope that hems in the meadows. The 

 shade was refreshing, but not so the absolute 

 silence. Not even a leaf on the aspens trem- 

 bled. The oaks and the beeches were motion- 

 less, fixed as the very earth itself. I became 

 impatient. Life was very real again. The 

 heavy hand of sober August thoughts was too 

 hard to be borne, and to see a bright red leaf 



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