: : .; Class Book tfo Copyright M COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. As Nature Whispers BY STANTON KIRKHAM DAVIS author of " Where Dwells the Soul Serene" NEW YORK THE ALLIANCE PUBLISHING COMPANY Windsor Arcade, Fifth Avenue 1902 THE" LIBRARY OF SCNGrtESS, Two Copies Received APR. If 1902 Copyright entry [CLASS a XXc No. COPY 3. 1^ Copyright, 1902, by Stanton Kirkham Davis. Rooney & Otten Printing Co., 114-120 West 30th St., N. Y. h ■ ? c •- Child of Nature, thou wliQ q.rt drawn by love of green fields and what lies hidden there, by love of the great sea, and of the mountains which lie wrapped about in mys- tery; thou to whom the winds are ever as a Voice and the sea a Presence, the warbling bluebirds and the whispering pines thy solace; who hast turned from the beckoning world of illusions only to draw nearer to the good heart of mankind by reason of a love that knoweth no bounds — this shall be thy reward, that life shall be to thee a pastoral and shall retain its sweetness. For thee shall ever open new vistas of our common estate; beside thee Youth shall ever journey hand in hand. CONTENTS. PAGE Exploration 7 Relationship 19 The Wild 29 Magic-Play 41 Voices 55 AS NATURE WHISPERS. EXPLORATION. Child of Nature, let us wander, at our own sweet will, through hemlock woods and by the sea; across the upland pastures and over the mountain trails. Let us dive with the sheldrake and loon and the crested grebe. Let us flit through the forest with the great horned owl, and hurl ourselves down from the heavens with the fierce duck-hawk. Let us run over the crust with the silver fox, and slide with the otters at their play, and leap from the rapids with the beautiful trout — a silvery gleam in the sunlight. We shall flit in the twilight with the little red bat and the whippoorwill, skulk in the marsh-grass with the clapper-rail, and stalk on the beach with "the great blue heron. Child of the magical Eye and the magical Ear, come let us roam with the wings of the morning and the heart of love, into the heart and soul of it all; and may this our hegira mark an era memo- rable for us. We shall shut the door of our cab- ins and enter the Hall of the Universe. We shall enter the forest and hark to the song of the Winds ; wander by the bold rocky shore and hear the voice of the Sea. We shall roam over the 8 As Nature Whispers. snows on winter days, and draw round the hearth on winter nights and there listen again to the voices of the Winds, of the Sea, of the Far-off- Time, — in glowing coals, or blazing logs, or drift- wood fire. It may come to pass we shall see what we have not seen before; may catch some new strain; think some heroic thought; may find our hearts larger than we supposed; may conclude at last the Unknown is within ourselves, — that there are the celestial spaces where swing the stars in their majestic orbits; that their Summer and Winter dwell and await our bidding, and so arrive at the root of it all at last and know it for what it is. And the stars are symbols, the Sun a symbol, the serpent and the dove. There is one Voice albeit many voices; one Sun albeit many suns; twilight, moonlight, starlight, but one Light only. We shall spend little time on smooth lawns and in well-kept gardens ; still less in libraries ; waste no time in listening to small-talk in stuffy draw- ing-rooms. Rather shall we listen to the cry of the loon and the yap of the fox ; fly overhead in the moonlight with the swift wild geese and hear the gossip of continents, of Northern wilds and Arctic solitudes. The wind shall blow away the chaff of our minds and set us vibrating like the telegraph harp till we give forth a resonant major chord, so bold, so free, so ringing true, that men shall pause in their haste and listen, till it sink As Nature Whispers. 9 into their minds, till it warm their hearts, till it ring in their ears forevermore. We shall sit by the murmuring waters, in springtime pastures where little streams me- ander slowly over pebbly beds, and little sil- very trout dart like playful gleams on those sunlit crystal waters that sing so soft, so sweet, so low as they ripple, ripple, rip- ple, and gurgle, tinkle, gurgle in their plac- id little journey. We shall sit amid the sweet- scented violets, the little white violets, on the edge of the placid brook, lulled by the cadence of the softly murmuring waters, the smiling, sunlit waters, on these rare days in June. The bubbling medley of the bobolink seems but the echo of our own exuberant thought ; the skimming of the tree swallows its graceful rhythmic flow. Green pastures, green pastures, and the blessed peace of a loving solitude ; O Elysian fields, O gardens of the Hesperides — here do we find you. "Out of a full heart and in green pastures did the Poet bring you forth. It was there that he found his Love, his Fair One, — by the placid stream in the golden sunlight. Whether there are violets or whether there are daffodils it matters not. All the days of my life — sang the Sweet Singer of old; aye, throughout one Day of my life, so long as I cleave to thee, O Soul of my Soul, shall I dwell in peace by the Waters of Life. There's never a rattle of wheels nor rush of io As Nature Whispers. trains, but only the murmuring waters and the song of the wren and the bobolink, and the hymnlike strain of the thrush floating over the meadows from the dogwood on the hillside yon- der. The red-bodied gauze-winged dragon- flies sun themselves on flat stones, and the bees drone in the clover, and the little cabbage and sulphur butterflies flutter languidly, while now and then a swallowtail or a monarch is blown over the stream. There is a frolic of yellow but- terflies in one sunny spot ; and the song sparrow takes his bath and preens his feathers ; while the water-boatmen whirl and swirl in their mazy dance on the face of the pool. Here shall the Earth-soul whisper us many things — hidden meanings, divine purposes, divine events yet to be. Ours shall be communion with Nature ; no longer shall we be interlopers, no longer trespassers. It shall be our privilege to look back of the screen of effects. This we call Nature is not what we have supposed it to be, — it is a very beautiful veil. Who has seen the face behind the veil ? This we call Man is not what we have supposed it to be, but also a veil, a mask. Who has seen behind the mask? The veil we name Diversity, but behind the veil is Unity. The Masters have ever perceived this ; this has been their direction, from diversity to Unity, from the veil to the Face, from the apparent to the Real. We shall linger by many a rushing stream, but As Nature Whispers. n the fish we seek is not to be caught with flies ; we must bait our hooks with other bait. We shall angle in very deep waters and in some rapids, and it will take more than the turn of a wrist to land our prize. There is in these waters a fish of pure gold. Occasionally some few have seen a sudden gleam upon the waters and have known it was passing. They it is who have changed their mode of angling. Genial kindly men always ; much given upon a time to consideration of split bamboo and lancewood, patent reels and landing nets ; now grown indifferent to these, but still cherishing affection for the brotherhood of fisher- men, still alive to the old comradery ; now seeking the fish of pure gold, silently watching the trout at the head of the pool with nose up stream that if it be possible they may gain some inkling as to the whereabouts of the fish they seek. They have not grown sour nor exclusive, nor cranky — far from it. They have become weary of fishing in shallow waters, that is all. They no longer angle at the expense of the fish. It has come to them that they only played at fishing before ; now they would fish in earnest. They are no longer dilet- tantes in Nature, in Art, in life, but strong mag- netic thinkers; opposers of shams; opposers of dilettanteism ; true woodsmen, lovers of Nature; lovers of mankind. The woods have won them over at last. The woods are genuine; dilettante- ism is there poorly nourished. They have seen 12 As Nature Whispers. the gleam upon the waters, how should they be content any more with hooking only brook trout ? How should they be content with garrulous talk, or with being amused? They do not go to the woods to pass away the time but to find them- selves, to angle for the fish of pure gold. Neither do they talk with men to be amused only, but this also to find themselves, and to help others find themselves. Thenceforth they look men in the eye and talk from the heart, and conceal only their petty complaints — if such they have. They would speak and write to some purpose — not merely to please; as trees do not grow to please, but they do good to us. We shall see as never before the unity of Na- ture. Now we see and are glad that the birds have attached themselves to man and have or- dered their going and their coming according to his. Never again shall we claim exclusive right to the pasture, the orchard, the ploughed field or village elm. The song birds shall share with us ; they will pay us in songs. Can we give them the worth of their songs? Were not the trouba- dours always welcome ? And yet they could sing no such blithe songs as the robin and the oriole. They are as much in our hearts as in the trees — the sweet singers. Neither shall we exclude the hawks — good friends of the farmer that they are; though he with his rustic notions takes his gun to them all. As Nature Whispers. 13 Knight errants shall we be in our walks, seek- ing to encounter new impressions in the fields of Thought. But let us cross no swords with wind- mills nor run down a flock of sheep. Bold hunt- ers in turn, but field-glass will suffice for all weapon ; the report of a gun indeed would shut out all finer strains which ceaselessly play through the woods. The smoke gets in the eyes and ef- fectually veils all fairer visions. As for traps, 'tis the trapper himself is caught first. Our eyes must be our trenchant weapons ; we must be Argus-eyed and many-eared. Nor is the nose to be discredited. It takes some preparation ; much training of the eye and ear ; some training of the feet, too, that they may tread softly, surely, and tirelessly. But nothing avails if the heart is not right. We need stout hearts to walk to any pur- pose — not so much for the reason of the physiolo- gist as for need of love. We must go to the woods to see and hear, — not to be heard and seen. Hence some suppression of the personality is called for that the spirit of the woods may at once take possession of us. This requires a certain rare culture — is perhaps the most difficult qualifi- cation of all. But the subtle impressions thus re- ceived have reference to our own inner state; it is thus Nature incites to self-exploration — to finding ourselves. So does the true art of walking consist in being rather than in going. There is more to be seen in the woods than 14 As Nature Whispers. trees and rocks and quadrupeds — very much more. He has not yet found himself who can see but these. He may be a botanist, an ornitholo- gist, an athlete, or a sick man trying to get warm — but he is not yet able to walk to advan- tage ; and Nature will not let him into her secret. Something more indeed than rocks and trees and birds; he must see the invisible and hear the in- audible, for only one so endowed can rightly interpret the visible and audible. Argus-eyed must he be, but of inner vision far stronger. If this is to speak in riddles, it is excuse that trees and rocks are riddles, and you and I riddles also. The text-books give no answer. Key to the visi- ble there is but one, and that the Invisible. Is it real, then, this light which shines not on land nor sea? It has been very real to the children of Nature. It illumines obscure signs and darkest corners. By this light they have walked. He who sees it not must grope still. Nature has ever been to them religion, — the cathedral in which to worship the Immanent God. And Love, which is the substance of Religion, is the perennial spring which has animated and sustained them — which sustains us every one, according to our realization. "Nature is well enough," says the man of af- fairs, — "but what have I to do with the invisible ? These visible stocks and bonds concern me more." Go to, foolish man ! These you can not take with As Nature Whispers. 15 you, and you are soon to depart for this very in- visible. Will you not hear something of it now? Do not all these things point to the visible as fleeting and temporary? And are not you in common with all men seeking what to you seems real? But for lack of insight you cannot detect the Real. Those who have made this their quest have learned from Nature the mystery of Unity ; to them she is replete with data that bear on the destiny of Man and the problem of living. But you have no ear for music, you say, and can not abide poets. Alas for you, then, for all truth comes to us in harmonies, and all facts are but the groundwork of poems — though poetry by no means implies verse; and life itself when rightly lived is a poem. It were well for you who go by dead reckoning to hail him who takes his course by the sun. There will be corrections to be made before you can get your bearings. To find ourselves is the main thing, for this is to be fortified. There is always a pretender to the throne of Reason. We owe it to ourselves for one season at least to live free of care and undis- turbed by the world, that we may make an honest effort at discovering our whereabouts. It would seem that only gods and tramps were above care. We may choose to be gods if we will. As well be tramps as dyspeptics and careworns. Is it not enough to die once that we must die every time we hear of a new contagion, and think of 16 As Nature Whispers. the poorhouse whenever there is a fall in stocks ? O ye pale children of Care, dear Nature bids you come unto her that you may have rest. She offers you her fields, her forests, her smiling lakes. In return she asks your hearts — nay, you must give this much first in pledge of your good faith. You who have lost the zest of life seek it again in Nature. Seek there to come to your- self that the shackles may be loosed which bind you and our beautiful Mother lead you again to the Soul. What shall it profit us indeed to gain the world and lose the perception of the Soul ? That is the pearl of price. Cleave to that : sell all for that. Straightway we are born a marvellous bubble floats before our wondering eyes — and we grow old and have not yet made sacrifice enough. All our hopes have gone to that. O great Bubble, we have sacrificed to thee our youth — we, the slaves of the Bubble ; for thee put aside our inno- cence. Where now are the iridescent tints which lured us through all these years? Alas, thou art grown old with us — thou art grown gray and forlorn as we. But now and again comes a child of Nature who is not thus lured. And though the slaves of the Bubble rage, yet will he not sacrifice, but gently puts them aside. He it is who cherishes the Ideal, who carries in his heart the kingdom of As Nature Whispers. 17 God. He it is who shall lisp some syllable, speak some magnetic word to the slaves of the Bubble lest despair overcome them in that hour wherein the great Bubble loses its alluring tints, its rainbow hues. Envoy is he from our common Mother to her lost children, for though they spurn her never does she let them out of her heart alto- gether but would gather them about her as the partridge gathers her chicks. Because of the Ideal which he has cherished he has retained his faith. While men were busy get- ting shrewdness, he has acquired insight. How jaded grows the world while yet Nature is ever young. It laughs at faith — lives far from God, and itself attests how bitter is the fruit of such sowing. It is at last a child shall lead the Na- tions, and such a child dear Nature ever whispers in the ear. RELATIONSHIP. In all sufficiency, perhaps, man has dwelt on his social relation; not so with his relation to Nature, albeit Nature were nothing with- out Man, without him, indeed, were a drama without a spectator. He is the Eye and the Ear. Apparently for his benefit does the drama take place. The fly on the ceiling and the mouse in the wall pay no heed to what takes place on the stage. But in some mysterious way Man is educated therein; learns at last that Beauty is the moral ground of the Universe. And in some equally mysterious way he derives character and insight, passing from the Seen to the worship of the Unseen by sure steps, and is drawn closer and closer to the Center of this moral Universe, where all unknown to himself he has had his being always. Our schooling in Nature is then a homing — verily a homeward flight. Ever and forever, through all experience, all vicissitude, the ulti- mate perception of Truth and Beauty, and the un- foldment of Love, we are going home; we are drawing to the Center. And some are singing as they go — singing in the desert, chanting on the mountains. It seems to be out there over the waters — this goal ; it seems to be in the winter sunset, or yonder on the snowy peaks, or in the 20 As Nature Whispers. serene light of the evening star, low lying over the distant hills. With more surety is it in our hearts, where appearance fades into Love; for there is solid ground, and somewhere there is the Father- land. So, then, are we related to Nature; so vitally indeed as if invisible bonds linked us to sky and sea, to woods and fields. And if you should shut out the daylight we would mourn ; if you should take from us the flowers we would grieve, as Ra- chel for her children ; so do we love our play- house and its wondrous scenes and settings ; so little do we dream that perhaps we ourselves are actor and drama and spectator and all, and con- tain the playhouse as well. But because we take the birds and flowers into our hearts, and because our hearts expand thereby; because Beauty awakens in us larger glimpses of Life — so have we a certain relation to Nature quite as worthy to be considered as any relation we may have to society. And though we may never forget our fellow man ; never wisely wander so far into the woods as to shut out thought of him, we may frequently forget — and with considerable benefit — his institutions and politics. For so have we the more chance of coming to our bearings, and of bringing back with us some hopeful message from the woods ; a broader sympathy and under- standing, perhaps, to these same social relations, which are surely in need of some freshening im- As Nature Whispers, 21 pulse, some loving ministry, some whisperings of freedom. All Nature reflects the hidden Reality, but only the open-hearted and clear-eyed are fully aware. True, others mark the seasons, the trees and flowers and landscapes. But these alone see that such frame themselves into a language deeper than words ; that they form themselves into sym- bols of this Reality. Endless trees grow and fall ; countless birds and insects endlessly repeat them- selves ; symbols surely of the real and permanent Beauty — else why not the self-same leaves and trees for good and all ? So also do men come and go even as the leaves ; but the real man does not come and go — The Soul abides. It is, then, full of suggestion, this beloved Na- ture; thoughts stream from a leaf and memories from a violet, and sudden aspirations come with the flight of a bird. 'Tis a work of love to trace and interpret this fair symbolism from day to day, from season to season, not knowing in what moment some revelation will be made. Rich may be our reward if we patiently watch, if we study the symbol that we may attain to the Real. But it must be with the open heart or it is to no pur- pose. It is clear that Man, having the divine fac- ulty of choice, has very near smothered himself with delusions ; that he is befogged and but dimly visible, like a schooner off the Banks in thick weather. It is only now and then that he 22 As Nature Whispers. looms from his cloud bank and we gain some idea of his true proportions. But Nature is undis- torted, unobscured by artificiality, and reflects more directly, if in inferior degree, the Divine Idea. So woodland and pasture afford us data bearing on the real nature of Man. Because of the silences, then ; because in solitude we may more nearly come to ourselves — for this reason may we perchance hear that in the woods which is inaudible amidst the din of life in the city, and be brought nearer to the hearts of men at last. And so this exploration is self-exploration after all. Man reads his thoughts in the sky and in the changeful lights of the meadows, as passing clouds are reflected on the opaline surface of a soap bubble. And with most men it is a very lit- tle journey ; for sheer timidity and lack of originality they will not leave the beaten track. But with prophet-soul 'tis the Argonaut voyage — this interior wandering. There is somewhat at the end of his journeyings which lies in no other direction and may be attained in no other way. It is plain he may not bring home this treasure and distribute it among the stay-at-homes, or those who only journey in cars and by the time- table. He can only say to them : "The way lies yonder ; you cannot see by me, you must see for yourselves." Now and again one will heed. As for the rest they will be as incredulous as were they who scoffed at Columbus — "What, a land not on As Nature Whispers. 23 our map — impossible ! " But he offers it not to one queen, but to nobility everywhere; — to the self-controlled, the aspiring, the sane. They alone who percieve the Soul have any constant direction in their wanderings. Others but circle aimlessly in their erratic goings and comings. They go but to return and stand again in the old tracks, and rest they have none. Alex- ander weeping for worlds to conquer, who has not found himself — much less conquered, is a type of the ambitious. Who of us has made an excur- sion into the interior world of his neighbor that he might see what trees flourished in that latitude, what needs there might be, whether the ground were rich or no? Because Society wears a mask we can but dimly perceive the truth over the tea cups or the wine glasses. The walls of the drawing-room are so hung with draperies and the floors so en- cumbered with rugs and everywhere issuch su- perfluity of bric-a-brac, that the Cremona is no longer resonant therein, and its great voice — its wondrous sweet voice — is smothered. While the Soul has whispered men to come forth these many years, they have thought perhaps it was the Cremona itself which spoke. So in the Church among those who sit in spiritual lethargy, made static by a creed, some upon a time have heard that in the organ's peal which somehow refuted the preacher, a glorious thunder which 24 As Nature Whispers. drowned his warning croak and drove them out into the fields — to find God at last. And thence- forth the sunshine was creed enough to them, and the dark circles went from under their eyes. Was it the organ think you? O incomparable ministry of Beauty! We shall go into Nature, then, that we may arrive at the ground of inspiration, and that we may be free of personality. For let a man but speak in the house with authority of Beauty, of Truth, and straightway men fall to worshipping the man. Here we see him to be but the instru- ment. We know that these instruments of the Supreme Beauty — these prophet-souls — lingered alone under the stars; that Truth rose from the desert to meet them — flowed to them in the tides and winds; that they derived insight from growing lilies and chirping crickets, and that mountains and lakes made them sensible of the presence of God. And these influences they lov- ingly transmuted into thought. Nature was the thousand rills which meeting in them rose in one crystal spring to bless the desert. They who upon a time have sought refuge and peace by such a spring, who have been refreshed and unspeak- ably blessed, in token repair to Nature that hap- pily they themselves may attract drop by drop the dews of Heaven, till a channel be formed and a new spring arise. In libraries men gluttonize on the thoughts of As Nature Whispers. 25 others till they can no longer assimilate, and a literary indigestion, a mental dyspepsia ensues. But the secret of Letters and Art, as it is of life itself, is to give, to draw from within and to give forth. The only success is to have given abun- dantly, wisely, joyfully. Genius gives always a thousand-fold more than it receives from the world. It gives in heaven's own coin. Doubtless it exists to that end. The joy of the doing, the love of the work, is the true recompense. The limit is soon reached in our absorption from oth- ers. From God only may we receive endlessly and to our good ; we are required only to render in turn to the children of God. From libraries we may draw but sparingly and that of the best, or we are soon gorged and unfit for thought. From Nature we may draw without stint; there is no limit but our capacity, if that may be called a limit which must of necessity be ever expand- ing. God ever urges Man to seek himself through Nature. When men can meet on these higher grounds there is not the same need to have recourse to Nature, for there are they in the presence of finer fields than any without — where blows the clover from which nectar itself is distilled. But so long as we are infected with egotism or with fear, we rarely so meet ; the elemental beauty and verity in us is obscured and we must look to Nature for that which is properly our own, that we may 26 As Nature Whispers. in time be led to uncover and reveal it in our- selves. You who have perchance but a poor relation to society have even a princely relation to Na- ture. Grieve not, then, for that which is relative ; but expand in the rays of the Sun, and presently you shall yourself be the dispenser of bounties, the giver of good gifts. For you the rain falls, the sun shines, the clover blossoms — for you as much as for any; aye, more if your heart be great. Great Nature is your portion; the heart of man- kind is your portion, if so be you will minister to its need; God is your portion. It is only as we see this at last that we become truly resonant, and our lives rhythmic and harmonious. How shall this be so long as we lament, so long as we sit disconsolate? You must know that all essen- tial experience is but preparing you to create your own harmonies. It is for you to select your influences, that you may the more speedily bring this to pass. Before you Nature spreads her scroll of beauty — unrolls it from your inmost being did you but know. Ownership have you in the stars, in the winds, in the sun ; proprietor of the sea, the mountains and the forest. The perception of the Beautiful, of the Good, the measure of your love — these are yours to increase, and these in turn are the true and permanent titles to the universe. Will you weep then for lack of a scrap of paper As Nature Whispers. 27 called a deed ? The robin sings not for the squire alone, nor blooms the rhodora in his woodlot only. The woodsman is loved of the Sun as no king is, and the mountain brook tastes better to him. Nature knows not king nor woodsman, but Man only. And if cities be partial, Nature is ever impartial, and tirelessly sets the good ex- ample. To us she ever speaks of equality, but we are slow to heed. Of the air there is enough, and of sunshine. Though one township be in want, the trackless prairies await still the plough and the harvester. 'Tis that we need least we com- monly hold most dear. We do not quarrel over the Sun, but over a little tinsel. Whoever will strike a pick in the right place may find gold; whoever will sow may reap in turn. So long as our dealing is direct with Nature there is no favoritism. There is a will-o'-the-wisp called Wealth, another named Culture; for these Society bids us make all sacrifice, and in the feverish pursuit we are disqualified for the perception of the real wealth and the real culture. But the inspiration which supplies the best in these comes from within, is evoked from us more than all by Nature. The real culture is after all an unfolding, a ripening, a drawing closer to the spiritual facts whereby we attain to sanity and freedom ; more than all it is Love blossoming in the heart. The real wealth is capacity. His culture is broadest who sees every- 28 As Nature Whispers. where the good; his deepest who percieves the Spirit sustaining all, and hears the rhythmic beat of the Universal pulsing in every life — if ever so feebly. And will you not believe in yourself? Will you not see that yours is the estate to cultivate, that as we may breathe in as much of the air as we can take into the lungs — so also Love as we open our hearts, Wisdom in the ratio that we uncover the Soul. There is neither let nor hindrance. THE WILD. All the world live so close in the house there's no room for thoughts to maneuver, and so they collide. The atmosphere of the house on rainy days grows sulphurous with this friction; close and sultry as the atmosphere that precedes a thunder storm. But in the open air, in the fields and in the woods, we discharge our surplus elec- tricity and clear our mental atmosphere. There is an abuse as well as a use of houses. They are intended for shelter, but may easily cut us off from the stars and exclude the sun and air as well. To be sure there is an indoor sunshine which we ourselves may radiate, and which is more cheering than the beams of Sol himself. There are, however, a great many cloudy days in the calendar in this regard. The indoor fog is very penetrating ; one needs be stoutly wrapped in cheerfulness to withstand it. Outdoor storms are invigorating; not so these house storms. They tend to rheumatism and to premature wrinkles. It is a common superstition that the former is de- rived from exposure to the elements. Exposure to indoor storms more likely. It becomes chronic from living in such atmosphere without the pro- tection of cheerfulness and philosophy. The af- flicted must put on these garments if they would 3° As Nature Whispers. recover; must go out under the heavens and dis- charge their pent up electricity as well. It is very wholesome, walking in the rain and sleeping in the open air and swimming in the lake. But most complaints are house-bred. The house becomes surcharged with mental miasma. The bacilli of irritability and fussiness and their kin- dred brood thrive in the close air. We must let the winds blow through our house. But cheerful- ness and kindness are the real disinfectants for such germs as these. Care swoops down on the house, and to the house-ridden appears to darken the sky. But on the mountains it is seen to be but a small species of bat. The little brown bats have been known to hybernate in the attics of old dwelling houses in thousands and thousands. There is danger of their getting into our heads, too. The inmates of old-time mansions who live also in superannuated ideas, are terribly afflicted in this way ; their mental attics become festooned with bats. Bats are partial to the antiquated, the dust-covered and superannuated. It is a wonder they do not get into libraries, which are com- monly rich in this. It is a good sign if, when the squire dies, the heirs make bonfires of the dust- covered and moth-eaten attic-clothes. But if, in- stead, they make pilgrimages thereto to weep and do homage to the Genius of the Superannuated, surely there is little hope for them in that house. There is every year an epidemic of house-clean- As Nature Whispers. 31 ing. It is born of a wise desire; it is Nature act- ing upon us to shuffle off the shrivelled leaf and husk. But she has not counted on our prudence, for we would content ourselves with dusting the old leaf and again hanging it on the tree. Our habit compels us to act always as though there were to be no new leaves. The rite is symbolic — symbolic of mind-cleansing and renewal. A few housekeepers there are who give attention to this. They find the mental cobwebs accumulate very fast. They it is who keep their windows open, so that on some memorable spring mornings when the oriole's note was heard for the first time, there appeared to float in from the orchard, ever so faintly, a still finer strain, and they, sweet women, have rejoiced, have been soothed and uplifted as by a wondrous presence. But cobwebs are not all ; there is refurnishing to attend to. Is there not a class of ideas akin to hair-cloth, and dusky walnut, and duskier wall paper? And these are to be replaced 1>y others akin to bright woods, — oak and birch and curly maple. But many cling to the hair-cloth ideas, the wax flowers and the coffin plate. Such will keep their blinds closed the year around for fear of the sunlight, and their ears stopped for fear of the Truth. To them there are no mem- orable spring mornings, no orioles, and never so much as a note of any finer strain has reached the dreary depths of that abode. 32 As Nature Whispers. In that house the children are pale and have lack-luster eyes ; there is no joyousness there and the poor things are sad and long to fly away. They have heard some whisperings of freedom, perhaps in their dreams, or in the Far-off-Time before they came to live in that house of gloom. But as it is the unhappy children are aging fast, and the memory of the Far-off-Time has vanished away ; for through the closed windows comes not even the note of the oriole. It is in the house that thoughts grow musty and stale. At least we shall not deserve the re- proach of Paleface and Tenderfoot, but take to the woods rather and profit by the wholesome re- action of the Elemental upon our plastic minds. So may we incorporate the granite ledge into our backbones and let the sap of the oak run in our veins ; take to ourselves the cosmopolitan instincts of the wild duck, that we may be at home through- out the length and breadth of continents wherever night overtake us and not merely in some six by nine box of a house and in some equally small round of duties. So shall we have the world at our feet and not on our shoulders. We shall no longer imagine ourselves to be Atlas, but aim rather to be Hermes, the messenger of the gods ; and it may be given us to fly between Heaven and Earth in some kindly ministry ; and even to breathe over the roofs of the world some rhythmic measure that here and there where a window is As Nature Whispers. 33 open it may float into the room with the light of the stars, and the sleepers shall smile in their sleep — the beautiful smile that brings back the roses of youth and smooths away the wrinkles of care. Prometheus did not take all the celestial fire ; we may yet snatch a brand, this time to set fire to the rubbish heaps of the world. Doubtless it would no longer displease the gods. If so, it were well to cast a brand into Walhalla itself and so help to bring on the new order of things. The hawk and the owl pick up always the sickly birds. It is expedient for us as well to be among the robust and strong-pinioned, lest we fall a prey to the hawks and owls of negation. Strengthen your wings then that you may take bolder and bolder flights ; sharpen your eyes that you may espy the falcon from afar. But let us not forget that the bolder the flight, the better the judgment that must go with it. It is not the rich that are safe, nor the much read, but the wise only, who have learned the use of their spiritual eyes, and no hawk ever catches them. It is a wise duck, too, that sees the decoy there in the sheltered cove and keeps on his way. It were well to fly high and not look for too comfort- able a spot. There's safety in the open. What is this hold the Wild has upon us? It is the voice of freedom, nothing less — the stirrings of freedom within us. We receive there the sug- gestion of our true estate; which we project in 34 As Nature Whispers. the solitudes — which we commonly obscure in society. It is not in the forest nor yet on the mountains — it is within ourselves. But there with Nature we are suddenly made aware of it. The wild apple makes a good stock on which to graft, so hardy is it; but if left to itself it pro- duces only knurly fruit, unfit for use. It is very much so with country-bred boys ; they are sturdy stock on which to graft the finer graces, to sus- tain and nourish a fair blossom and plentiful fruit, and to withstand the ravages of canker worm and coddling moth. But it largely depends on the thought grafted. Left to themselves they, too, come up a scraggly growth and produce at best some crabbed weazened thought. Every man should serve a term in the city ; let him live with it, work with it, throb with it — but let him not forget the smell of balsam and the whir of grouse. Then let him revert to the Wild and con- sort daily, if may be, with the highhole and the Northern hare. Let him spend his -ripe days in the country, the inspiration of the fields always at hand; and if he have in him the slightest strain of the poet, he will speak with assurance some word or two. Man and Nature; Nature and Man — one must know both to speak surely of either. We speak of one in terms of the other ; refer them to a common source ; see in them at last one identity. Wild and free ! Wild and free ! There's music As Nature Whispers. 35 in the very words. It is after all the wild beauty, the wild health and vigor we love most. Some few there are ever who refuse to be over-civilized ; to whom the cry of the loon and the tap of the woodpecker is sweet music. Something aborig- inal they cherish in their make-up. It is precious, this elemental streak — far more so than any ac- complishments. This the city and the club cannot take from them at all hazards; rather than that they would turn savage altogether. Because of this they do not capitulate to the current non- sense; because of this they are pioneers. They are the pioneers in thought, the pioneers in art; they are ever the romaticists. They cannot bear to be choked and stifled with the Classic, gagged with the Past ; no school can contain them long; no method bind them. Towards men they lack reverence. They doff their hats to the sub- lime only. They prefer the silence to the bab- bling of schools. In the presence of the Wild may it be to feel a kinship always, — tacit homage to the free and untrammelled in us. The sudden leaping away of the startled rabbit, or a weasel furtively crossing the path ; the splendid whir of the ruffled grouse ; the low, silent flight through the woods at twi- light of a barred owl, or the splash of muskrats into their pond as we pass in the dusk ; the sight of porpoises leaping from the blue waters, or the osprey's headlong dive, or a solitary marsh-hawk 36 As Nature Whispers. skimming silently over the marsh-lands — they give us every one a thrill, strike in us an answer- ing chord. We are attracted most by the heroic in Nature ; perhaps because civilization affords but little of this heroic spirit, while its fires slumber yet deep within us. In the mountains we drop artificially as we ascend. Give us time enough and we be- come natural ; and the slumbering fires waken, warm the heart and creep thence into the blood and finally tingle in the fingers. We start mani- kins and arrive gods. We have run up the scale of consciousness — straightened to our full stature. As Beauty redeems us, so is it equally true that the Wild restores. When there is no longer any influx of the Wild into our conscious- ness; no impetuous onslaught of Goths and Huns to overturn our effete civilization and lend their rude strength and brawn upon which to graft anew, it must be we shall wither away. We need to make constant excursions into the woods and fields there to find renewal. They who have lost this secret think to find renewed life in drugs and tonics ; as though there could be any renewal without a change of thought. The winds will blow away our timidity and faithless- ness if only we give them a chance, and in time bring us some virile thought — perhaps life us off our feet for once. The sun will give our thoughts a mellow tinge; birds will stir in us the ancient As Nature Whispers. 37 chords of melody. The boom of the surf is our own voice drowning for the time the little falsetto we have assumed to be ours. With the advance of reason, imagination is neg- lected, and in turn reason must suffer for lack of it. Consider a completely unimaginative pedant in the woods, armed with data and bristling with facts. His observations would be those of a cli- nometer or barometer; he would see like a sur- veyor's transit. What intolerable bores do we be- come for lack of imagination and humor. Let us leave our pedantry in the schools and museums when we go to the woods, resolved to be for the time as aboriginal as any. So may we see again in the lake the Smile of the Great Spirit; speak once more with birch and tamarack; hear again the Westwind and the Southwind. It is in the town and the church that superstition lives. The pure myth of the woods is perennial and jubilant ; deep-rooted not in fear, but in some elemental substratum of our being; subconscious memories of some original sympathy with Nature before our apparent separation took place. It is a far-off echo of aboriginal chants before ever Greece was — pre-Atlantian perhaps ; faint echo of some pri- meval dawn when the Earth-soul spoke to men — when men were yet perhaps part faun. It is in solitude we shall draw nearest to Na- ture — and best understand ourselves. Some measure of solitude we must have ; it is as neces- 38 As Nature Whispers. sary as sleep. Those who do without it have a fagged look; their composure gradually slips from them and they lack poise and serenity. Sol- itude is in no sense isolation, but rather this clos- er communion with Nature ; least of all is it lone- liness. The nearest approach to isolation is in uncongenial society. Nay, isolation itself is per- haps a cold heart, a lack of sympathy. It matters not how many people we brush against, — if we feel no sense of brotherhood, that is isolation. In solitude myriad voices whisper; here does Nature offer her closest sympathy. But only to men of a certain higher development does solitude become a resource and a solace. To a self-centered man it is intolerable. To shallow persons it means being left to their own society, which they abhor. But to the prophetic soul it means communion with God. Such are never alone. For them God peoples the desert and the expanse of the Ocean ; the forest depth and the mountain summit are redeemed and made hospitable by the divine Presence. We cannot separate Nature from Re- ligion. Part and parcel are we of what we call Nature ; one with the Great Spirit which animates Nature. Our life appears hopelessly involved in the enigma, whereas it is in reality the key of the same. Only because of the divine in us are we able to apprehend the divine; it is in itself proof of our divinity that we are able so to do. It is in solitude that we more clearly perceive this As Nature Whispers. 39 world-unity ; and hence the value of solitude to those whose inner eyes are opened. The percep- tion of our identity with the Spirit and that this External depends on us and not we on it; that despite the manifold appearances the Soul abides, ageless, deathless, immutable — therein for us is emancipation. In nameless ways and under end- less pretexts, it is freedom at last which men seek. But this, the best gift of the gods, is bestowed only upon their most promising children. Clear- eyed and of resolute thought must they be indeed who attain to this. In solitude Nature holds the glass up to us very close, and if our eyes be muddy we cannot bear to look into it. But the clear-eyed gaze impas- sively. If we walk not with God, but take the world into the woods — that is not solitude, for we are crowded and elbowed by the multitude of our thoughts, rude and undisciplined as any crowd. Only when we are divested for the time of the world-thought do we really derive the benefit of solitude. For this is its truest benefit, that the din and hubbub should cease and the Silence be heard. Tis then, and for this, that solitude is sweet — sweet beyond compare. There are we solaced by the ineffable Presence. But we want no solitary sell in Certosa, nor the clois- tered seclusion of a San Marco ; that were but to crib and confine the more. It is Liberty we want under the heavens, and this descends upon us only 40 As Nature Whispers. with the Spirit. And if our solitary vigil has not given us this ; has not disengaged us from the world thought and set us free in the Spirit; has not warmed and mellowed and humanized us as well — then have we attained only to isolation and not to solitude. M A G I C-P L A Y. Child of Nature, let us sit under the pines in the winter sunshine on the fragrant yielding needles of the white pine. The wintergreens and club-mosses have pushed their way through the floor of pine-needles. The winter sunshine pours upon us its golden bath till these are warm to the touch and the air is full of the luscious, pitchy fragrance. Fit resting-place for poets and heroes this ; inspirer of rugged thoughts. There haunts the piney woods on mountain slopes the spirit of heroic thought. Let the right man make this his couch and it will tingle in his blood. It would seem as though the resinous odor were a disinfectant for the mind's ills, and somehow served to clear the mental atmosphere. There shall come to us here new strength and fortitude. Our minds and hearts shall grow ro- bust. We cannot recall to mind what it was that vexed us in the city ; it has faded in the distance with the hum of the streets. Tis here a majestic solitude which we people with a Spartan brood of thoughts — children of the winds and streams. Our thoughts grow fragrant like pine-needles, and are musical as the soughing of the pine or the murmuring of the brook. How is it some can lose so much of their time smothered in houses 42 As Nature Whispers. and buried in cities, till all their thoughts are house-bred and feeble, and they are ready for the latest contagion? But then we are all spend- thrifts of our time and have little idea of the value of thoughts. As though other than thought — the ministry of kindly and beautiful thoughts — there were any real business in life. And this is one good office of the woods — to in- spire fragrant thoughts, to be carried to the city like arbutus to cheer the bed-ridden and house- stricken, or like club-mosses and holly to help draw the cheer and love and kindliness out of our hearts and make a season of joyousness. Below in the swamp the trunks of maples and birches glisten silvery gray and the forest of in- terlacing branches has a purplish sheen. Some- time these branches will be hung with myriad glistening drops ; again they will be encased in ice — a crystal splendor, or festooned with thick- hanging snow. A flock of goldfinches in winter dress comes bounding through the air with their peculiar buoyant flight and light among the dry catkins of the birch and alders ; their sugary sweet calls sounding like springtime love-notes. The goldfinches speak softly — they appear always to be in love. A little later a faint red haze will hang over the swamp, for the red maples will be in flower. In October it will be a bewildering mass of color; and indescribable glory will rest on the swamps. First a tupelo will blaze forth As Nature Whispers. 43 in August, and then a solitary red maple. For days and days they will stand alone — forerunners of the coming wave of beauty. There dwells in the swamp a famous Magician. It is rumored he was present at the birth of the lotus in the Nile ; that in the Long Ago he cast a spell over Syrian fields and the hills of Moab, over Thracian vales and Persian gardens. How- beit his genius has all of its old fire; he has lost none of his force of originality, but brings here more love to his work than ever. True no one has seen the Magician himself in the swamp, nor espied him wandering in the fields hereabouts; but all sooner or later comes to see and love his work. Enchantment hovers in the skirts of his gown. With a tap of his wand all is changed. It seems he is a high priest of the Sun. Light is his Ariel. He has no personal motive; so he is always content, and is never weary. His wage is Beauty. It seems that he has whispered to the spider concerning her web, that it is not to catch flies only, but to catch sunbeams as well. To the cat- bird he has given some advice in nest-building, and the coloring of eggs ; indeed, he has whis- pered to all the birds hereabouts. None have paid better heed than the vireos, though they do not build in the swamp, preferring the dry hill- side; they are all artists. The redeye and war- bling vireos are full to overflowing with this 44 As Nature Whispers. sense of beauty. It has touched their voices. The redeye always chants ; life would seem to be wor- ship with him, as it is with the hermit and wood- thrush. Not so the white-eye and yellowthroat ; their voices are just a little cracked, but they are not wanting in fervor. All members of the orchestra have not important parts, but all con- tribute to the general harmony. Trombones, bassoons, and kettle-drums, and on occasion tri- angles and cymbals, are all very essential to the whole, but hardly solo instruments. The cat- bird is the foremost vocalist in the swamp ; not so dramatic as the thrasher, but a little more real, and more modest withal, in his delivery. The Carolina wren is a brave little singer with a sweet voice — a ringing voice. But neither can inspire that repose and reverie which inevitably follows from listening to the thrush and the redeye, or the robin when late in the afternoon he flies over from the pasture and pours out his soul in his ves- per song from the tallest maple in the swamp — in honor of the Magician perhaps. The true bird of Paradise is he — our beloved robin. Perhaps it is of Paradise he sings, he himself a sweet singer on fair mission bent; beloved minister of Beauty with all his lyric force to appeal to the hearts of men. O great Magician ! O wondrous bird! who can work such beauty in this poor swamp, that we leave all to follow here and listen in the enchanted time ; that even now in winter As Nature Whispers. 45 we come here for very memory of those halcyon days ; that we come here to worship, deeming this the fittest place where such great beauty is. Here do our hearts grow too large for our bodies, so great, so tender a love wells up. 'Twas thus our prayer went forth with the lyric prayer of the robin, here in the swamp. But now he has gone, our tuneful bird, though the swamp is filled with memories of him, so magnetic was his presence. The Magician has not neglected the frogs. He designed the dress of the leopard-frog and the very green livery of the spring frog. Cricket- frogs and treetoads he uses in his orchestra, much as he does field crickets, for that sustained rhythm which seems the pulse of the earth itself. The chorus of peeping frogs is his particular de- light ; sweet it is as a chorus of child voices. His idea it was — the sculptured shell of the wood- tortoise, and the bright colors of the painted tur- tle. He has made marvellous designs for trout and bream and pickerel ; suggested the gauzy wings of the dragonflies; and let his fancy run riot in butterflies and moths and the endless shapes and colors and markings of beetles. He designed also a very handsome tricolored coat for the skunk, and a plain but very rich one for the mink and otter. The gray squirrel has a royal coat of silvery sheen — now at its best. The weasel is allowed to change his coat and wear a white 46 As Nature Whispers. one in winter, but why this exception in his favor no one knows. He is an expert in lichen painting, is our Ma- gician. He works chiefly on the white pine in Parmelia and Cetraria designs. These are classic with him ; quite as much so as was the lotus with the Egyptian or the Acanthus with the Greek. Why not take the hint, since this is the land of the pine and the lichen ; not Ionic and Doric, but Birch and Pine? The larger Polyperus makes a good capitol on a white birch column. Some beautiful work also he does on granite boulders. ''You are dressed somewhat soberly for this fes- tival," he says. ''Let us see if we cannot touch you up a little." On tree trunks he uses the ex- quisite design of the fern-moss. The hairy cap and Dicranum are commonly used on the ledge. What wonderland mosaics in the neglected wood paths, not to be equalled by jade and ser- pentine and lapis lazuli; the silver grays and mauves, and gray-green tints with variations end- less, requiring a vocabulary of color terms. There's no such blending ever ini Florentine mosaic; it is but patchwork to this. The Magi- cian loves well the running blackberry esteemed a common plant, but none the less a more rare and beautiful design than is to be found in Venetian lace, or the rich embroideries of China and Japan. But his work is not to be compared with anything so gaudy as the latter, though he knows how to As Nature Whispers. 47 dazzle the eye in October with sugar-maple and scarlet oak and the Virginia creeper's matchless glowing color. The subdued tones of the damask robes of Shinto priests ; the colors of old Persian rugs, of Moorish tiles and Mediaeval stained glass — these suggest the hues of the creeping blackberry as in gray November days it weaves its harmonies in among brown oak and beach leaves lying on the mosaic of hairycaps and rein- deer lichens and ruddy-hued wintergreens, set perhaps with pinkish pebbles of felsite and satiny bits of feldspar, smooth pebbles of milky quartz and shining specks of mica. He has had much to say concerning the bark of trees. The best work is done perhaps on the canoe birch, though the cherry birch has its own charm; and so the yellow birch with its metallic tints, and the wood colors of maple and beech and black cherry. And where is there a more unique design than the shagbark? Walnut — the nut of Jupiter; oak, sacred to Druid rites; ash, sacred tree which held heaven and earth together — irreverent have we grown that we put you into firewood and barrel staves. So is Mythology al- ways fading into Utility. But mythology has its uses as well as lumber and nails — which only serve us in the end for a coffin. Alas, if the oak no longer inspires us to worship, nor the ash hold heaven somewhere in its branches, nor we at anv time sacrifice our foibles and whims at the 48 As Nature Whispers. arbor vitse — ancient tree of sacrifice — and receive there in return some new impetus to resolute thought. Where else is there such splendid rough and ready work as on the bark of the great yellow and sugar-pines and the sequoia of the Sierra Nevada? For this same Magician or a kindred spirit is at work there. There, too, in the purpling twilight, when the wild doves are calling and the smoke of the camp-fire ascends in the clear dry air are we brought under his spell. Every spring the Magician effects some mar- velous transformation among the birds. He waves his wand and dull colors become bright in a twinkling; the reedbird turns into a bobolink and the cardinal puts on his flaming coat. Per- haps if we knew and loved him better he would consent to wave his wand over our bald pates. What if we could renew our teeth as the lobster his claws? The lobster in his subterranean cavern on his bed of Irish moss and red algae has a secret we have not learned. But it is not to be had by boiling him. He excels in leaf magic. At some mysterious signal which no one has been able to discover — it may be the drumming of the ruffed grouse — these little round knobs and these sharp-pointed ones will suddenly expand and hang out their green flags. Wonderful to relate, there are never any slips — never a mistake. No one has ever seen As Nature Whispers. 49 oak leaves on the beech, nor a maple leaf on the oak. It has been intimated that perhaps the Ma- gician is after all a great hypnotist ; there are no objective oaks nor beeches nor maples — no leaves, but all these are in the mind of the Magician and we are made to see the same thing. Howbeit it answers the same end. Most philosophers, in fact all worthy the name, concur in this, that the Ma- gician has no whims but has certain ends in view, and never swerves from his purpose, which is a most benign one. Very certain we are that it is not black magic. Let us not be afraid of the name of Magic. Is not love magic, and thought magic ? Are we not beset by miracles and magic- play? It would follow from this that what we call birth and death are a sort of hypnosis too. After all it matters not so much whether it be hypnosis or no, — but what purpose does it serve ? And the best experience answers that it is educa- tional and beneficent. Bravely then we lend our- selves to it on the strength of our faith in the Purpose. We ask only that henceforth we be de- livered from our delusions with reference to our- selves and others. Let the Magician work out his full purpose in us. For is it not the ministry of Beauty which redeems us? Are we not led step by step from the external, the superficial, to the moral, the spiritual, the Inmost Beauty which is Love ? To return then to our leaf-magic; it is obvious 50 As Nature Whispers. that it serves the ends of Beauty. Even these shrivelled white oak leaves here on the edge of the swamp still bear faint witness. Always in Nature the new life pushes the old. Before the old leaves are off the new buds are forming; in- deed, with hickory and beech and hobblebush are already well formed. If when the leaves have fallen, there is no sign of further life, we may conclude the tree is really dead. It is no longer a tree — it is wood merely. The new life should make its appearance before the old is done. There should be budding prom- ise of the spring while the snows are falling fast ; intimations, that is, of the Higher Life already showing themselves here, — even as it is with the hobblebush, whose new buds are fully formed while the great leaves are taking on their coppery hues. Some of the rarest coloring is reserved for the mushrooms and appears in the Dog days that there may be a particular beauty for every season. Witness the hue and tint and contour of Agaric, of Boletus, and Russula. More exquisite thing of soft velvety green than the green Russula is not to be found ; nor can rose surpass the rich hue of the red Russula. And what a beauty has the deadly Amanita — gleaming, fragile, fair as ala- baster. The Fly Amanita is the painted courtesan of the woods. But the Magician has whispered in the ears of his creatures that they shall not As Nature Whispers. 51 be beguiled by the siren. The nose of the squirrel tells him no; and he nibbles an edible Russula but passes the beautiful Amanita resolute as Ulys- ses. Children of the wonderful Nose, the inspired Nose indeed; inscrutable knowledge of the ol- factories; marvelous nose-whisperings. "Russu- la — eat!" says the Nose, and they eat. "Ama- nita — eat not!" says the Nose, and they obey. Inscrutable Nose, servant of rabbit and fox, of the bear and the moose ; which says to the rabbit — "Yonder a mile or so a red fox skirts the swamp. Get you to your brush pile ;" and to the i r ox — "In the swamp in such a place lurks a cot- tontail." The magical Nose of Necessity this, replaced in man by the no less magical Nose of Beauty; which says to him — "Arbutus! White Violet! Sweet brier ! Bayberry ! Pitchpine ! Balsam ! in- terpret thou their significance; appropriate thou their beauty." There is moreover the inscrutable Eye, servant of hawk and owl ; which says to the soaring fal- con — "Yonder microscopic object some thousand feet below is field mouse or shrew or partridge chick" — and he descends like an arrow ; and to the fierce owl gazing into the all but impenetrable blackness — 'There sit young partridges on that limb." Here the magical Eye of Necessity, trans- formed in man into the still more magical Eye of Beauty; which as the one showed to the hawk, 52 As Nature Whispers. mouse and shrew and partridge, and to these in turn revealed the hawk — an ominous speck in the distant blue; so this reveals to man the play of light in the mist, and the rainbow ; shows him the rich mottled feathers, the poise and grace of this same hawk; the dainty coat of the deer- mouse and the silvery fur of the mole — designed not solely by Utility ; spreads before him the smil- ing panorama of green meadow and forest, and snowy peak, and nestling lake — blue as robin's egg- And is there not also the magical Ear of Ne- cessity, servant of mink and weasel and house cat, which records faint squeals of innumerable vibrations per second ; and again a magical Ear of Beauty which hears celestial harmonies and bids the fingers cover page upon page with strange hieroglyphics, which, being interpreted by those whom the Ear serves, by cunningly devised and resonant bits of wood and brass, give us heaven- born melodies, dynamic, harmonies? Lastly there is the magical Voice of Necessity, obedient to trumpeter swan and wild goose, breaking the stillness of the far regions of the air with its clarion call ; and the incomparable and magical Voice of Beauty, of which the vocal chords, — nay, more, the emotions, the very con- sciousness, is but an instrument upon which the Spirit breathes, as the winds play upon the pine boughs. The magical Voice proceeds from the As Nature Whispers. 53 heart and goes to the heart of humanity, and by means of its vibrations works wondrous changes, and is itself a means of some Revelation. From the throats of thrush and robin, oriole and finch, it makes further reve- lation — works some reformation. O magical Voice of the Universe ! Still does the East sing unto the West and the West replies with its in- spiriting chant. Still do the morning stars sing- together; now as ever the music of the Spheres. But only the magical Ear of Beauty hears. The Ear of Necessity is taken up with the hiss of steam, the hum of machinery and the tap of ham- mers, — in which the Ear of Beauty detects harmo- nies as well. None the less the morning stars still sing together ; and the Wizard ever practise* his beautiful magic. VOICES. Let us draw round the hearth in the twilight hour. The Wizard has cast his spell over the firelight as well. Hark to the voice of the drift- wood fire ; wreckage of vessels built in the olden time when copper bolts were used. So the wood is impregnated with copper salts; impregnated too with the thought of that tragic hour, when the schooner homeward bound from Georges, with her load of cod and haddock and hake, drove on the ledge in the winter gale and all hands were lost. The spray still hisses a little in these flames of azure and malachite hue, and the wood moans some of its past. But the orange flame of the sea salt burns brightly and cheerily. It knows no lament. I think the Sea has been let into the secret that Man can drink up the oceans and swallow the Sun, and roll the Earth between his fingers and thumb; and it is only little clay images of him that are battered on the ledge and strewn on the sands along with stranded sand-sharks and jellyfish, and uprooted kelp, and the broken mast and spars and tangled rigging of a Gloucester schooner. Again hark to the voice of the coal fire — the brightly glowing coals, the voice of the Long 56 As Nature Whispers. Ago. Gone these many ages are those ancient jungles of the Coal Age where flourished Sigil- laria and Lepidodendrons, and the Coal ferns; gone this long time the strange amphibians which peopled those interminable jungles and breathed that carbon-saturated air. Of what Stygian scenes, of what a monstrous life could these flames tell : the combats of slimy monsters in the heart of that watery jungle; the birth, the old age and decay of a whole flora and fauna, whose bones are now brought at last to the funeral pyre. Earth knows them no more. Still other races have come and gone since their day. Here on the glowing coals this life of the incon- ceivably remote Past perhaps renews itself, here the Phoenix arises from its ashes. It is doubtless so for the voice is always serene, — is indeed sym- bolic of cheer and content. In tne open fire we hear the voice of the Woods — the blazing oak and hickory logs, the lichens still on them, and perhaps tucked snugly away in winding passages eaten into the hard wood the larvae of hickory-borers and other bee- tles. We mourned the fall of those forest trees ; the sound of the axe has been pain to every true friend of the woods. But the blaze calls forth no such thought; it is cheeriness itself as we draw round the hearth. Throughout a century these oaks and hickories lived in closest relation with the wood life of bird and insect and four-footed As Nature Whispers. 57 creatures, and went down at last before a biped with axe sharper than ever beaver's tooth. Generations of gray squirrels built their out- door nests in this oak— there in that fork where once a vine crossed ; built them of oak and maple leaves for the spring and summer. Their winter quarters were in the hollow trunk ; their lookout perhaps that knothole in the branch. How often in the twilight the screech-owl has come on silent wing and perched on that projecting knob, and sat gazing with fierce round eyes into the dark- ness, and listening with sharp ears. On how many golden mornings the sharp-shinned hawk has stopped in his swift low flight to rest there and peer about with terrible eyes, in search of mouse or shrew, till disturbed by the excited cawing of a band of crows. What hosts of gallflies and sawflies punctured the leaves of this oak. What a huge progeny of buzzing insects the old tree tenderly reared. What legions of aphids have fed upon this tree ; what myriads of black ants wandered up and down its trunk and branches in search of these same aphids. What flocks of warblers in the spring, and of creepers, nuthatches, and chica- dees, in the winter-time have scanned its twigs for anything edible according to bird standards. Its acorns were carried to the four points of the compass. Gray squirrels buried them yonder in the pine woods; and the jay dropped now and 58 As Nature Whispers. then one in the pastures, meaning to carry it to some hole in a fence-post. So a hundred oaks have sprung from this one parent. The old oak looked upon many scenes and some tragedies. In the blackberry and wild-rose thicket at its foot the song sparrows were wont to build; a cottontail had its form hidden in the grass; and not far away the ovenbird concealed her nest, or perhaps a chewink. On an old stump in that thicket the ruffed grouse drummed on April mornings. There were blacksnakes and weasels and redsquirrels that came that way, and not every little downy ovenbird, nor every little cottontail lived to scramble for itself. There was many an empty nest; many a naked birdling frozen in unseasonable frosts, was car- ried out in its little mother's bill and dropped beyond the thicket. The hickory stood at the cross-roads and the village boys clubbed it on their way to school; so in turn their sons, and again their grandsons. Under this tree the farmer drove on his way to town. Consider the loads of fragrant hay that passed that way and brushed against it, leaving wisps of straw dangling high above the road. Little processions took their way beneath this tree to the village graveyard, while the oriole sang overhead all unheeding, and the apple trees were in blossom. The tree saw them first toddle to school and saw them carried away at last. As Nature Whispers. 59 What gales have roared about it and rattled its bare branches: what mighty reverberations re- sounded there ! What sagas of the Ancient For- est has the Westwind told; what mighty chants the Northwind breathed, as the snow has come swirling over the pasture and clung to its branches. And then the silence of the winter days; the majesty of the winter nights when the village folk were abed and snoring, and the old hickory stood alone in the glittering snows, soli- tary witness of the unutterable glory of Orion. And at last came the axe sharper than beaver's tooth; all this — and the voice bewails not, and the flames crackle cheerily and we are warmed and cheered as we sit about the hearth. What if our thoughts were as great as was the life of that tree, — reflected the winter nights, the sum- mer dawn, the October days, the ineffable silences ! The Wizard presides over the twilight and somehow has hidden in this hour a mystery which men are ever seeking. In the mountains we feel its solemn influence. The birds feel it, the vesper-sparrow and the wood-thrush; the robin changes his song to a reverie. He can no more throw it off than can we in listening to him. The Sea can not escape it but is always soothed, and we who look at it are hushed by its serene voice — that Ancient Voice which spoke when the everlasting hills were not as yet, before the 60 As Nature Whispers. mother Sea had felt the birth throbs of the Ap- palachian and the Sierra; which sang as it ca- ressed the treeless primeval shores that had not known the footsteps of any creature ; which greeted the Sun and Moon, — they alone tor countless ages. Voice of the Ancient Solitude which sang with the stars through the Archean night, and after the lapse of untold aeons still sings tranquil and unworn as in that first morn; its song has been the requiem of unnumbered hosts, but has grown no sadder, is not weary, sounds no lament. Man alone knows tragedy — alone sees evil ; he alone despairs. Earth has be- come one vast sepulcher, and yet 'tis smiling as ever. Never was spring more winsome, nor autumn mellower. Earth wears no mourning. Ocean chants no dirge. The sun always shines; always somewhere dew is falling, trees are grow- ing, flowers are blooming. The whole trouble then lies in a nutshell — the consciousness of man. But what does the Voice know of this, or of death — of beginning or end? It sings as it has always sung — of Life. The saga of the Sea, great mother of the Mountains, on whose heaving bosom sleep the Winds — Bethink you of the Long Ago when the Wizard stood on the shore of the Paleozoic sea in the dawn of that awesome day, when after a gestation lasting ages there was born the giant Appalachian — flung forth into the light of day As Nature Whispers. 61 from the womb of Ocean, and the waters rushed back in vast tidal waves as the Titanic rock- ribbed child of the Sea rose to greet the sky, and the Sun kissed its alpine summits for the first time. Those terrific birth throes over, the fond mother caressed and fondled her mighty infant, as cloud-topped and snow-capped the majestic Appalachian towered above the placid waters. Then followed a period of growth till the moun- tain child reached its splendid height, and the youth — the very Achilles of mountain chains — was bearded with the primeval forest. Anon ma- turity, and now old age — a ghost of its former self, shrunken and bent, and long separated from its beautiful mother, the Sea. What if they should meet again; would the Sea recognize her heroic child in this aged wrinkled creature? Other children has she, — some younger and more lusty ; born of Jurassic, or Cretaceous, or Eocene and Miocene times. But all are aging and pass- ing away, and in time but skeletons of them will be left, as of the super-aged Laurentian Hills. The ''everlasting hills" then have their little day, their youth, their old age. The mountain chain is a rope of sand. The Spirit alone is ageless, — knows neither birth nor death, neither yesterday nor to-morrow. Look within then for the Ever- lasting, for there it abides in that indestructible inmost center. The song of the River, the child of the Mist ; 62 As Nature Whispers. melodious always, from the first tinkling melo- dies of crystal drops oozing from the moss and falling into tiny pools, there on the mountain slopes, to its child-song, its laughing child-song, as it tumbles helter-skelter down the ravine. And the virile song of its youth, the lusty young tor- rent, vigorous and swift, like a runner making the hundred-yard dash of the rapids, and racing on through the gorge with tumultuous song of power. Lastly, the serene song of age, as it spreads out broad and ample and majestic through valley and lowland, past sunny farms and city wharves, till it enters the Sea at last and its song becomes the song of the Sea. Even at the city wharves it has not wholly for- gotten its child-song; remembers still its gleeful childhood and its virile youth; recalls with a thrill the long sweep of the rapids, the mad dash over the fault-cliff, the eddies and the whirlpool. It croons to itself in its placid course, of the wheels it turned, the rafts it floated; of the swift race through the gorge — the stars glittering overhead and on either side the somber spruce, the deer coming down to the water's edge in the dawn, the black bear lumbering through the brush to wade into the pool. And now to meet the incoming shad and herring in the spring, and to hear the incessant croak of frogs on the river banks, the jingle of bobolinks and the gurgle-ee of redwings ; till at last the taste of salt, the rail As Nature Whispers. 63 skulking in the marsh-grass, the armies of fiddler crabs and the mussel beds, the gulls soaring over- head, and at night the guttural call of night her- rons coming after eels to take back to the heron- ry. Thus to enter the Sea, to be merged in it, to sing the song of the Sea. And yet it will rise again in the beautiful Mist to return to the mountains, come tumbling down the ravines and sing again the laughing child- song. Does it remember the Sea, or has it for- gotten ? — as we have forgotten, that ocean out of which we have come, that eternity of Life that lies behind us, to sing for a day our merry child- song, our song of the ample years; for a day, and then again to enter the Sea. But to us there come divine memories, inspired moments when above our own virile song of youth we hear that serene chant of the ocean of Love, that Song of the Eternal. The saga of the Boulder — How it was chip- ped from its Spartan mother Ledge in that Far-off Time by the inexorable frozen river which came out of the Polar Sea. Child of the Ledge, it saw the last of the great Reptile tribes ; saw the sequoia, the cypress and magnolia re- place the ancient jungle; trembled under the tread of the vast herds of mastodon and saw the rhinoceros wallow in the swamp. And then the slow, crushing, irresistible advent of the frozen river — a moving wall of ice, mile high, which 64 As Nature Whispers. buried the forest and tore the Boulder from its mother Ledge, and carried it on its back high in air, there for untold wintry ages to look out over the frozen wastes; for all companions the winds and stars, and always the endless billowy sea of ice slowly moving southward. The Saga of the Winds — Of the Northwind singing of musk-ox and caribou, of the snowy owl and the white ptarmigan — the Northwind which sports with icebergs; of the Southwincl singing of the birth of coral islands and the tropic dream of the cocoanut palm, or again of mockingbirds and woods glowing with the rhododendron. The unfavorable Winds are given to us tied in a bag, but like the stupid sail- ors of Ulysses we go to tampering with the bag when the Captain is asleep, and so they get loose and whisk us about. And it's all because of our meddling — for y£olus gave us the fair Winds to blow us home, and we had but to keep the bag shut on the rest. It is always an Age of Fable and all our experiences are parables. Being but poor interpreters as yet we sometimes miss the moral. None the less iEolus gave us the fair Winds to blow us home, and who knows when the Southwind may not carry to our listening ears some sweet strains of the mockingbird and waft us faint perfume of southern roses? And if the Northwind drift icebergs upon us, have we not within us the Immortal Fire? Perhaps As Nature Whispers. 65 we may still get the unruly Winds which have caused the tempest back into the bag, and so put an end to the commotion. It is significant that they could be contained within the compass of one small bag, whereas no end of bags could pos- sibly contain the fair Winds of ^Eolus. Ah those fair Winds, those fair Winds — if we but set our sails they carry us while we sleep. Already has the Westwind stirred in us the free- dom of the Plains. Who knows what still finer strains it may bring to our listening ears; with what robust measure the Northwind may inspire us. If our sails are set upon what a golden strand may we come at last. It is an heroic life, this of the ledge and boul- der and forest tree, of the mountains and the sea, and it inspires resolute thought. It sweeps us out of our peck measure into the elemental, the vast and Titanic. The contemplation of so vast an arena, of such herculean figures, imparts to our present consciousness some ruggedness and strength and largeness, as though we should wield the hammer of Thor and be ourselves the heroes of an old-time saga. As for the Sun, it is doubtless somewhere within our estate and rises and sets on the hori- zon of our thought. Perhaps this outer orb is but the reflection of that radiant center in Man. We have this as evidence, that when this center is obscured we can detect but a rushlight there 66 As Nature Whispers. in the sky. We must carry our own sunshine. Those who do not are but feebly warmed at best and give off no more kindly warmth than does a glacier. Perhaps this too is the work of the Wizard. Howbeit there appears to be no coun- ter-charm, — nothing that will offset the lack of sunshine. We shall freeze in the simmering deserts if this inner Sun be observed. Fog and moonlight each envelop the land in mystery — sign perhaps that all mystery is but a befogging of our minds, a sort of moonshine and bewilderment which gives way before the Sun's clear beams. Sunshine and moon- light then are antithetical in us as well as in nature. We are children of the Sun, not of the Moon. Symbol is he of Life. It may be we are stablished after all in the Sun; have there our Life, and these are but our shadows projected here on Earth. Who loves the Sun loves Truth. Let us go bareheaded and with the sun in our faces. Our thoughts will grow ruddy while our faces tan. Moon-worship, Mammon-worship, Myth-wor- ship — it's much the same thing; so likewise Sun- worship, Spirit-worship, Truth-worship. There is the same difference between Sun-worshippers and Moon-worshippers that there is between sunflowers and moonflowers. One is lusty, ro- bust, light-loving; the other a pale eerie creature Unfolding by night and hiding away by day. (LofC. As Nature Whispers. 67 Superstition centers around the Moon. But Sun-worshippers need have no fear. It is but a little round ball after all — much like a dried pea. Yet it has a weird effect upon the waters; it is very much like witchcraft. Much like enchant- ment, too, is its marvelous transforming power, bathing in beauty the dreariest landscape. We commonly spend our days in a mental fog; so much so that when Light does break in upon us the occasion is memorable ever after. They who have seen it for a day at a time appear to walk apart from mankind by reason of it, and are only dimly seen through the fog, looming vague and undefined but landmarks none the less. For the transient gleams that come to all men make them brothers of the prophet. It is but one Sun, one fog. We are bewildered in the common mist ; we get our bearings from the selfsame Sun. When we ascend above the fog and look down over it in the light of the rising or setting Sun, it is no longer a bewilderment but a pearl-mist we see — a rose-tinted wonder. It is much the same with our mental fogs. When at last we rise above them, they glisten somewhat in the sun- shine — in that finer sunlight of the Spirit — and no longer seem the cold dreary waste they did when once we wandered in them, forgetful that the Sun still shone overhead. Always the setting Sun draws us ; it is a lode- stone to us, and as we gaze it is to feel as though 68 As Nature Whispers. we would pass through our eyes into that mys- terious vortex of color wherein the Sun disap- pears as through a golden gate, beckoning us to follow. Westward go our thoughts. We yearn to follow into that golden gate of the West. But it is ever beyond — and still beyond, that Golden West which draws us. We may go westward to the Plains — our sunset is beyond in the hills. We may follow to the shores of the Pacific — it sinks yonder in the burnished sea. It is not of the earth — this Golden West for which we yearn, — no more are we. It is a more subtle attraction than we dream of; a finer call than any we hear with our ears. Is it memory or prophecy that is awakened as we look? This Beyond is but the unexplored of our selves; this Golden Gate, the gate of our destiny. In the sign and portent of the sunset we read compensation, fruition, com- pletion. So shall we ever be drawn. The Sun never sets on our hopes. Above us float the clouds like moods, fancies, visions of our own. This emptiness over our heads is to us apparently tender, sympathetic, companionable. Who has not felt the compan- ionship of the sky, its balm, its restfulness? Whence this tenderness if not projected forth from our own inner selves? It is we who shape the dome; we who paint it blue. Yonder is no dome, no blue, — but space and floating dust specks. But even such the Soul invests with As Nature Whispers. 69 beauty and links them to the life of man. We are kin to the Magician; we too are miracle workers. But we sleep, we sleep; these many- ages we have slept, and our little life is what we dream. When shall we awake to Life itself? When we prefer ever another's good to our own. When our life itself becomes a love-motif. When in us thrills humanity's heart — its measureless sympathy and joy and tenderness. When we take the round world into our hearts as already we have taken the star-eyed dandelions and the lisping warblers, — not till then; for even Death does not awaken. Life, not Death, is the liberator. This tenderness in Nature is sign and symbol only. We see our own depths in the sky, but without recognition. These voices of the se the woods, the river — they are the songs of our prehistoric, primeval life; again the prophetic chant of the Soul, the serene, the _ unfettered. Nature rests in God and is rhythmic with uncon- scious rhythm. So do we become rhythmic and harmonious as we find our life in God, in Love — consciously rhythmic; and this is the rational consciousness. The Earth sings — sounds its key-note as it spins, like the humming of a Ti- tanic top. Oak, aspen, pine — to each its song. The solitary pine — large and primeval — sings a free and heroic song. They have their winter- song, their spring-song and the song of mid- 70 As Nature Whispers. summer days. Rhythmic are the wheatfields; rhythmic the cornfields when the corn is in the ear. The Cosmos is singing — resounds from end to end with the mighty reverberations of Har- mony itself; it is as rhythmic with the music of the spheres as are autumn fields with the reverie of crickets. Yet 'tis compassed in the Soul — receives there the divine impress. There is but one motif; from the call of the hyla to the mother's Lullaby — but one motif. It is in our dreams we hear discords. When we awake it is into this Song of Life — and to find ourselves singing. [the end.] Where Dwells t(e Soul Serene. By STANTON KIRKHAM DAVIS. Cloth and Gold, ... $1.25, post-paid. CONTBN TS : I. Elements of Freedom. X. Wealth. II. The Ideal of Culture. XI. True Aims. III. The Idea of Religion. XII. Higher Laws. IV. The Nature of Prayer. XIII. The Soul of Nature ; V. Practical Idealism. Introduction. VI. The Significance of Thought. Spring. VII. Character and Its Expression Summer. VIII. The Beauty of Poise. Autumn. IX. Ethical Relations. Winter. THIS book is written from the standpoint of an eminently practical Idealism, and from the ground that the perception of the Soul is the basis of freedom, and thence of all true culture. The key-note of the book is Love — the love of God, the love of man, the love of Nature; but this is Religion, and thus is it a plea for all that is true and vital in religion: religion not for set times and set places, but for all days and all times — the religion of Love. A free and rugged spirit pervades the book; it radiates healthy for it was written in the open air and constantly suggests the woods and fields. It has force and originality and grace of style: a sound and wholesome book, full of love and good sense. Above all, it is serene and hopeful, and from beginning to end is suggestive of peace. It is an antidote for the fever and unrest of the times, and carries the reader to the unexplored recesses of his own being and sets him to vibrating with the Real. THE ALLIANCE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 569 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, N. Y. wtiere Dwells me Soul Serene. COMMENTS OF THE PRESS. "Stanton Kirkham Davis has succeeded in an emi- nent degree in bringing his philosophic discussions within the easy grasp of the busy man of affairs who has little time for calm and serious contemplation. * * * * It is an appeal to all that is best in man's nature, and seldom have I read so rational a presenta- tion of the ethical needs of to-day as is here presented. * * * The closing division of the volume would make a charming little work in itself, and one that would be prized by all lovers of Nature and of the beautiful in literature. * * * The author's portrayal of the Sea- sons will delight all lovers of fine prose poetry. It re- veals the mind of the careful student of Nature and the imagination of the artist and poet. It suggests at times some of the best flights of Victor Hugo: it has also something of the rugged quality of Walt Whitman. * * * The author is clearly not only a philosopher and teacher : he is a poet and an artist. Thjs is a book that merits wide circulation. No one can read it with- out being made healthier, saner, and happier for its perusal." — The Arena. " * * A work that will add much to the spiritual enlightenment of humanity. It should be widely read and studied."— World's Advance Thought. "Stanton Kirkham Davis has put into words in his 'Where Dwells the Soul Serene' the thoughts that come— at least some of them— to the rest of us in broken waves of feeling: which pile up in the moods of life in high walls of foam only to break in spray and Press Comments — Continued. vanish again. But here they are caught and confined. * * * His philosophy therefore is not that of conflict and wrestling, but of healing and salvation. "The style in which this unpretending book is written has a touch of Emerson about it — sometimes a glimpse of Ruskin. Poet, philosopher, and Nature-lover is the writer, and he gives to his Soul of Nature — a mono- logue on the seasons — a charming and original revela- tion." — Minneapolis Times. "A book that gladdens the heart with its wealth of good tidings. And these tidings are told in a way that reveals the philosopher, the poet whose nature has opened to Nature's God. "It is fragrant with messages from the heart of Truth, spoken so buoyantly, pungently, and knowingly that all kindred souls will in the reading rejoice with the author. We enter with him the realm of true thoughts, ideas, emotions; we tread pathways flower- lined. "It is one of the highest expressions of appreciation of God's universe that we have read. "Individual in every phase of its expression, the book passes straight to central realities and in speaking of the circumferences of life illumines them by its trenchant truthfulness. "It is one of the most substantial among the modern helps to genuine spiritual thinking." — Boston Ideas. "His thoughts issue from him with much imaginative freshness and with frequent strength. * * * " 'The Soul of Nature' is primarily a lesson in the proper way of approaching Nature, and with the high ethical mood of Emerson toward the outer world com- bines a minuteness and intimacy of acquaintance dis- tinctly reminding of Thoreau." — Baltimore Sun. Press Comments — Continued. "A book that vibrates the highest chord of perception. One can almost feel the winds sweep over the Elysian fields, and hear the ^Eolian harp thrill its divine an- thems. * * * His word-pictures of the seasons lighten our burdens, heighten our stature and gladden us with scenes that he has well interpreted." — Indiana Book Review. "One of the best books it has been the privilege of the reviewer to read for many days. It is a rift of light along the soul's pathway to liberty and peace, a verita- ble benediction. * * * "The author has taken firm hold upon the realities of the Unseen, and here is his strength. He has brought to his task a keen scholarship, a ripe judgment and a simplicity of soul truly charming. * * * "It were indeed a difficult task to open the book anywhere and not find a gem.'' — Light of Truth. "The spirit of the New Thought permeates every sentence of this delightful book. It leaves one re- freshed as if from some cool sparkling well of life's purest draughts. Every one who is seeking peace, harmony, contentment, will be aided by its perusal. For teachers it has an extra charm and its perusal by them is worth a post-graduate course." — The Columbian. "The volume is full of hope and strength for the reader who will accept its teachings. It ought to carry inspiration to many world-weary people." — Toledo Blade. "It is a thoughtful, useful volume." — Boston Times. "To dwell with serenity is a state worth reading many books for, and Mr. Davis says many wise and true things in a lucid style." — Hartford Conrant. "It is to radiate health and serenity, to stimulate faith and offer a tonic to indifference that this book has been Press Comments— Continued. written. Even the casual reader will see that the work is worth while. * * * * Very much of inspiration is to be gotten from pages like this. The author has evidently read widely, pondered deeply, and that he is able to think somewhat originally and write exceedingly well his readers will readily grant." — Boston Budget. "Of all the New Thought publications which have yet appeared it would be difficult to find a book con- taining more wealth of thought than this. Sound in its philosophy, lofty in its aspirations, clear seeing and in- tuitive in its perceptions of the highest possibilities for man, its pages are filled with wisdom which must prove helpful to every reader. We congratulate the author upon havng given to the world a work which will be valued throughout the century."— Herald of the Golden Age. "A bracing analysis of spiritual freedom and a keen commentary on man's relation to God and Nature. Many important truths are stated with power." — Gloucester Times. "The author shows throughout a fine culture, which illumines his thought and makes it weightier. 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