Sunday, August 9.—One week ago, this very hour, it was an experiment. This morn it is an accomplished fact. One week, O Nature, have I been all the time a devotee to thee! It has not been a week lost, but a week gained—a week of my own in which I did that which my mind listed to do—only that and nothing more. I have not grown as did Thoreau, while he watched the sumac leaves along the borders of his unfenced wilderness, but I have been—content. Odors royal, medleys of the fragrance of the fields, have catered unto me, pennyroyal and peppermint, prickly ash and everlasting, earth odors also of the dewy August morns. Music of many birds has come unto my soul. Sunrises and sunsets, morning stars and clouds in all their varied splendor have I looked upon. The moon each night hath bathed me in the glory of her resplendent beams. Unto mother earth have I also tried to do full homage. On her bosom, close to her sod and her mold have I reclined for many a happy hour. Of her have I written. To her is due full honor for the meed of content I have had.
Woodland Idylls