Almost within call are men and women whose names suggest histories and prophecies, all the tangled phenomena of individual life. Yet how easy to forget them all on these seats, which Gen. Babcock has made so restful—thank him. The long summer wave in the May grass; the low, swaying boughs, with their deep, mysterious murmur, that seems instinct with human pleading; the tender plaint of infant leaves; the music of birds; the depth of sky; the balm, the bloom, the virginity, the peace, the consciousness of life, new yet illimitable, are all here, just as perfectly as they are yonder in God’s solitude, untouched of man. If you need help to love a tree read the diary of Maurice de Guerin. No one else, not even Thoreau, (whose nature lacked in depth and breadth of tenderness perhaps in the deepest spiritual insight,) ever came so near or drew forth with such deep feeling the very soul of inanimate Nature. He felt the soul of the tree, heard it in the moaning of its voice as it stood with its roots bound in the earth and its arms outstretched with a never-ceasing sigh towards infinity. But why do I speak of him? He lived and died and never saw Washington. CHAPTER XVIII. FAIR WASHINGTON—A RAMBLE IN EARLY SPRING. Washington Weather—Sky Scenery—Professor Tyndall Expresses an Opinion—A Picture of Beauty—“A City of Enchantment”—“My Own Washington”—Prejudiced Views—Birds of Rock Creek—The Parsonage—A Scene of Tranquil Beauty—A Washington May—Charms of the Season—Mowers at Work—The Public Parks—Frolics of the Little Ones—Strawberry Festivals—“Flower Gathering.” The climate of Washington has a villainous reputation, and at certain times and seasons it deserves it Yet it tantalizes us with days which prelude Paradise. Under their azure arch, through their beguiling air, with reluctant steps we enter winter—the oozy, clammy, coughing winter, which waits us just the other side of the gate of January. But they linger long—the preluding days. They seem reluctant to yield us to our impending foes—society and wet weather.