I have thought, when walking in the woods through a certain retired dell, bordered with shrub oaks and pines, far from the village and affording a glimpse only through an opening of the mountains in the horizon, how my life might pass there, simple and true and natural, and how many things would be impossible to be done there. How many books I might not read! * * * * * Why avoid my friends and live among strangers? Why not reside in my native country? * * * * * Many a book is written which does not necessarily suggest or imply the phenomenon or object to explain which it professes to have been written. * * * * * Every child should be encouraged to study not man's system of nature but nature's. * * * * * Giles Fletcher knew how to write, and has left English verses behind. He is the most valuable imitator of the Spenserian stanza, and adds a moral tone of his own. TO A MARSH HAWK IN SPRING There is health in thy gray wing, Health of nature's furnishing. Say, thou modern-winged antique, Was thy mistress ever sick? In each heaving of thy wing Thou dost health and leisure bring, Thou dost waive disease and pain And resume new life again. Man walks in nature still alone, And knows no one, Discovers no lineament nor feature Of any creature. Though all the firmament Is o'er me bent, Yet still I miss the grace Of an intelligent and kindred face. I still must seek the friend Who does with nature blend. Who is the person in her mask, He is the friend I ask; Who is the expression of her meaning, Who is the uprightness of her leaning, Who is the grown child of her weaning. We twain would walk together Through every weather, And see this aged Nature Go with a bending stature. The centre of this world, The face of Nature, The site of human life, Some sure foundation And nucleus of a nation, At least, a private station. It is the saddest thought of all, that what we are to others, that we are much more to ourselves,—avaricious, mean, irascible, affected,—we are the victims of these faults. If our pride offends our humble neighbor, much more does it offend ourselves, though our lives are never so private and solitary. * * * * *