Then Hope, her starry eyes upraised, Will suddenly surprise you there, And you will feel that you have gazed On the white sanctity of prayer! Were it within the province of this study, I should like to quote some of Mr. Scollard’s prose from a “Woodland Walk,” “A Search for the Lady’s Slipper,” or many another picturesque chapter. One loses thought of print, and is for the nonce following his errant fancy through meadow and coppice to the heart of the spicy fir-woods, picking his way over the forest brooks, from stone to stone; following the alluring skid-roads, latticed by new growths on either side and arched above by interlacing green; penetrating into the tamarack thickets at the lure of the hermit-thrush, that spirit-voice of song; resting on a springy bed of moss and fern,—becoming, in short, wayfellow of desire, and thrall but to his will. Mr. Scollard has also published within the past year a book of nature verse called _The Lyric Bough_, which contains some of his best work in this way; one of its livelier fancies is that of “The Wind”: O the wind is a faun in the spring-time When the ways are green for the tread of the May; List! hark his lay! Whist! mark his play! T-r-r-r-l! Hear how gay! O the wind is a dove in the summer When the ways are bright with the wash of the moon; List! hark him tune! Whist! mark him swoon! C-o-o-o-o! Hear him croon! O the wind is a gnome in the autumn When the ways are brown with the leaf and burr; Hist! mark him stir! List! hark him whir! S-s-s-s-t! Hear him chirr! O the wind is a wolf in the winter When the ways are white for the hornèd owl; Hist! mark him prowl! List! hark him howl! G-r-r-r-l! Hear him growl! One of the earlier books, _The Hills of Song_, contained a brief, merry-toned lyric, with a cavalier note, that sung itself into the _American Anthology_, and is perhaps as characteristic and charming a leave-taking of this phase of Mr. Scollard’s work as one may cite: Be ye in love with April-tide? I’ faith, in love am I! For now ’tis sun, and now ’tis shower, And now ’tis frost, and now ’tis flower, And now ’tis Laura laughing-eyed, And now ’tis Laura shy. Ye doubtful days, O slower glide! Still smile and frown, O sky! Some beauty unforeseen I trace In every change of Laura’s face;— Be ye in love with April-tide? I’ faith, in love am I!