If you look southward, and I want you to, note that delicious blue 
beyond the blue. See how it tilts against the sky like the dear sea! 
Really, friend, my farm is cheap whatever it cost me, to have the 
sea on its south horizon. Here I am, geographically stated, fifteen 
hundred miles from the ocean, and, in all honor, as I look over and over 
again, I feel looking at the sea as | have seen it from the inlands of the 
Isle of Mona, as | have seen it from the shores of Maine, back in the 
meadows with the pines for background, or in Cali- 
fornia, where scorched deserts smoked at my back 
in the furious sun; but this sea we are looking on 
now has all the ravishment ot those, and did I not 
know (for | am a knowing man, notwithstanding 
many intimations to the contrary) that the sea was 
not there, 1 could take oath that there its waters 
lashed shoreward with multitudinous music and 
gentle laughter. Often from this hill have I re- 
freshed my tired spirit by watching this bewilder- 
ment of sea, and have been fain to believe that a 
sea breeze went lingering by my cheek. Here | 
entertain dreams of the sea, and the murmur of 
soft music comes to me as when in long blessed 
nights, I have half slumbered and half wakened on 
a seabeach listening to the hoarse calls from the 
tremendous deep when it ‘‘moans round with many 
voices.’’ This is my seashore, and these cliffs are 
my sea cliffs, and I could stand and watch this blue, 
unhindered ocean, all the glad day as ia a happy 
dream. Here I may with Friend Whittier—pitch 
my tent upon the beach, and hear the night wind 
surging through the tree tops with unquenchable 
music, and think I hear the music of the sea. 
And then this sea is not a dream of the sea, but 
a dreamless sea, and do you wonder I love my farm when it borders on 
what sweet Blackmore calls ‘‘the great unvintaged ocean?”’ 
Now, friend, look northward, Once | tried to experiment on my 
Dutchman (mine then, but mine no longer; he has changed pasture, 
much to the benefit of my pasture) saying, ‘That is a beautiful view, 
is n’t it?” To which, while he tamped the posts down and spat copious 
tobacco on my grass, he replied, ‘‘Bully.”” That was praise and I was 
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