ty of the world. Many a busy man finds his
best recreation in the woods and fields. It may be only a few hours
each week, but it is enough to keep the music of the flowing waters
ever in his ears and the light of the sunshine in his eyes. It is
enough to give the men and the women of the state wholesome views of
life, happy hearts and broad sympathies. Some few find in the woods
and fields thoughts and feelings which are, to them, almost akin to
religion. If this little book helps such lovers of the out-of-doors
ever so little; if it shall help others to see for themselves the
beauty and the joy and the goodness of this world in which we live,
the author will feel that it has been worth while.

VII.--AN OLD ROAD IN JULY

In the old woods road a soft haze hung, too subtle to see save where
its delicate colorings were contrasted against the dark green leaves
of the oaks beyond the fence. Not the tangible, vapory haze of early
morning, but a tinted, ethereal haze, the visible effluence of the
summer, the nimbus of its power and glory. From tall cord grasses
arching over the side of the road, drawing water from the ditch in
which their feet were bathed and breathing it into the air with the
scent of their own greenness; from the transpiration of the trees,
shrubs and vines, flowers and mosses and ferns, from billions of pores
in acres of leaves it came streaming into the sunlight, vanishing
quickly, yet ever renewed, as surely as the little brook where the
grasses drank and the grackles fished for tadpoles and young frogs,
was replenished by the hidden spring. Mingled with it and floating in
it was another stream of life, the innumerable living organisms that
make up the dust of the sunshine. Pink and white, black and yellow
spores from the mushrooms over the fence in the pasture; pollen pushed
from the glumes of the red top grasses and the lilac spires of the
hedge nettle and germander by the roadside; shoals of spores from the
mosses and ferns by the trees and in the swamp; all these life
particles rose and floated in the haze, giving it tints and meanings
strangely sweet. When a farmer's buggy passed along the old road the
haze became a warm pink, like some western sky in the evening, slowly
clearing again to turquoise as the dust settled. Viewed in this way,
the haze became a mighty, broad-mouthed river of life, fed by billions
of tiny streams and moving ever toward the vast ocean of the sunlight.
Faintly visi