As my train rolled quietly out of Jersey City late at night, I uttered a sigh of gratitude that I was really off; that at last I could rest. Up to the final moment I had been hurried and worried, but the instant I was alone, with my "section" to myself, I "took myself in hand," as is my custom. At the risk of seeming to stray very far from my subject, I want at this point to say something about rest, the greatly desired state that all busy workers are seeking, with such varying success. A really re-creative recreation I sought for years, and "I've found some wisdom in my quest That's richly worth retailing," and that cannot be too often repeated, or too urgently insisted upon. What is imperatively needed, the sole and simple secret of rest, is this: To go to our blessed mother Nature, and to go with the whole being, mind and heart as well as body. To deposit one's physical frame in the most secret and sacred "garden of delights," and at the same time allow the mind to be filled, and the thoughts to be occupied, with the concerns of the world we live in year after year, is utterly useless; for it is not the external, but the internal man that needs recreation; it is not the body, but the spirit that demands refreshment and relief from the wearing cares of our high-pressure lives. "It is of no use," says a thoughtful writer, "to carry my body to the woods, unless I get there myself." Let us consult the poets, our inspired teachers, on this subject. Says Lowell,-- "In June 't is good to lie beneath a tree While the blithe season comforts every sense, Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart, Brimming it o'er with sweetness unawares, Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up And tenderly lines some last-year's robin's nest." And our wise Emerson, in his strong and wholesome, if sometimes rugged way,-- "Quit thy friends as the dead in doom, And build to them a final tomb. * * * * * Behind thee leave thy merchandise, Thy churches and thy charities. * * * * * Enough for thee the primal mind That flows in streams--that breathes in wind." Even the gentle Wordsworth, too; read his exquisite sonnet, beginning,-- "The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers." All recognize that it is a mental and spiritual change that is needed. With the earnest desire of suggesting to tired souls a practicable way of resting, I will even give a bit of personal history; I will tell the way in which I have learned to find recreation in nature.