THE HAUNT OF THE ANCHORITE. 117 



our own complexion everywhere, and receive 

 but what we give. And so it becomes literally 

 true that 



There is no glory in star or blossom, 



Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

 There is no fragrance in April breezes, 



Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 



Doubtless it is this unconscious appeal to the 

 inner self that evokes the sense of reverence 

 which we feel when standing face to face 

 with nature's finest objects. We interpret our- 

 selves rather than the things about us. These 

 are tangible, and we idealize and create them 

 afresh. 



Under floods of beechen green and shadows 

 numberless the Warblers are singing of summer 

 in full-throated ease. These are in the deepest 

 recesses of the wood, and the sounds only 

 faintly, and at intervals reach us. Quite a 

 wealth of woodland beauty is around. The 

 leaves of the grey-boled Beech are of the most 

 delicate green, as are the long trailing tassels 

 of the Pine. Soft mosses cover the floor of the 

 wood. A small green warbler restlessly flits 

 among the tangled weeds. It complains in 

 melancholy " tweet, tweet," that we have in- 



