s sect mark. But the force of the poem
and catholicity of its sanctions are either utterly destroyed or
ridiculously enfeebled, by capping it with a sectarian and narrowly
interpreted climax.

Although the poem is so well known, I shall quote it here in the form
preferred by its author;--

WAITING

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid th' eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.

The waters know their own and draw
The brook that springs in yonder heights;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delights.

The stars come nightly to the sky,
The tidal wave comes to the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.

A WINTER DAY AT SLABSIDES

"Come and go to Slabsides for over Sunday--I think we can keep warm. We
will have an old-fashioned time; I will roast a duck in the pot; it will
be great fun."

This invitation came from Mr. Burroughs in 1911 to friends who proposed
to call on him early in December. Riverby was closed for the season, its
occupants tarrying in Poughkeepsie, but, ever ready for an adventure,
the Sage of Slabsides proposed a winter picnic at his cabin in the
hills.

A ride of some two hours from New York brings us to West Park, where our
host awaits us. A stranger, glancing at his white hair and beard, might
credit his seventy-five years, but not when looking at his ruddy face
with the keen, bright eyes, or at his alert, vigorous movements.

Together with blankets and a market-basket of provisions we are stowed
away in a wagon and driven up the steep, winding way; at first along a
country road, then into a wood's road with huge Silurian rocks cropping
out everywhere, showing here and there seams of quartz and patches of
moss and ferns.

"In there," said Mr. Burroughs, pointing to an obscure path, "I had a
partridge for