sight, and so hide their summer's house. The very openness was a 
hiding process. And under the wide, high sky, where hang bird and star 
and flower, and tree-twig with its bursting green,—under that open these 
beatitudes are hidden as ferns are hid under a sandstone ledge, deep in 
a wood and wet with a perpetual shower of dripping from the stony roof. 
So much to see, so little seen; that is our grief. How we have let sum- 
mers waste! Sparrows are not less provident. Nature's bounty runs 
to waste, or, what is worse, runs to weed. And a poet thought of this 
A WOODLAND POOL OF DOGTOOTH VIOLETS 
(and, as for that, what have not the poets thought of ? Some one of 
them has left a caress on every flower of the field as the winds do): 
“There are flowerets down in the valley low 
And over the mountain side, 
That were never praised by a human voice 
Nor by human eye descried; 
But sweet as the breath of the royal rose 
Is the perfume they exhale; 
And where they bloom and why they bloom 
The good Lord knoweth well."’ 
28 
