climb buoyantly to his meridian of two hands’ breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some bold western hummock.  To hear the evening chant of the mosquito from a thousand green chapels, and the bittern begin to boom from some concealed fort like a sunset gun!—­Surely one may as profitably be soaked in the juices of a swamp for one day as pick his way dry-shod over sand.  Cold and damp,—­are they not as rich experience as warmth and dryness?

At present, the drops come trickling down the stubble while we lie drenched on a bed of withered wild oats, by the side of a bushy hill, and the gathering in of the clouds, with the last rush and dying breath of the wind, and then the regular dripping of twigs and leaves the country over, enhance the sense of inward comfort and sociableness.  The birds draw closer and are more familiar under the thick foliage, seemingly composing new strains upon their roosts against the sunshine.  What were the amusements of the drawing-room and the library in comparison, if we had them here?  We should still sing as of old,—­

     My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read,
     ’Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large
     Down in the meadow, where is richer feed,
     And will not mind to hit their proper targe.

     Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too,
     Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again,
     What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true,
     Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men

     Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough,
     What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town,
     If juster battles are enacted now
     Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown?

     Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn,
     If red or black the gods will favor most,
     Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn,
     Struggling to heave some rock against the host.

     Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour,
     For now I’ve business with this drop of dew,
     And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,—­
     I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.

     This bed of herd’s-grass and wild oats was spread
     Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use,
     A clover tuft is pillow for my head,
     And violets quite overtop my shoes.

     And now the cordial clouds have shut all in
     And gently swells the wind to say all’s well
     The scattered drops are falling fast and thin,
     Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.

     I am well drenched upon my bed of oats;
     But see that globe come rolling down its stem
     Now like a lonely planet there it floats,
     And now it sinks into my garment’s hem.

     Drip drip the trees for all the country round,
     And richness rare distils from every bough,
     The wind alone it is makes every sound,
     Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.