Green fields and whispering woods; or, The recreations of an American "country gentleman"; embracing journeys over his farm and excursions into his library . g the volume from which I had been reading at acertain bald and shining pate, which being duly ducked,for once Plutarch missed his mark; and as the sessionbroke up the note of the whip-poor-will came clear and A LITTLE 3I00NSHINE. 81 sweet from the bushes in the suburbs Just to the northeastof my cottage. I paused a few moments under the wild cherry treesupon the lawn, after my companions had withdrawn,to listen to the musical voices of t
Green fields and whispering woods; or, The recreations of an American "country gentleman"; embracing journeys over his farm and excursions into his library . g the volume from which I had been reading at acertain bald and shining pate, which being duly ducked,for once Plutarch missed his mark; and as the sessionbroke up the note of the whip-poor-will came clear and A LITTLE 3I00NSHINE. 81 sweet from the bushes in the suburbs Just to the northeastof my cottage. I paused a few moments under the wild cherry treesupon the lawn, after my companions had withdrawn,to listen to the musical voices of the night, to breathethe cool sweet breath of the west, to gaze at the star-sprentfirmament, where Hesperus rode brightest, and the majes-tic moon that began now to flood the east with her light, andI thought of Southeys fine verses; How beautiful is night IA dewy freshness fills the silent air;No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck nor stain,Breaks the serene of heaven;In full-orbed glory yonder moon divineRolls through the dark blue depths;Beneath the steady rayThe desert circle spreadsLike the round ocean girdled with the sky;How beautiful is night!. MOTTOES FOR KHiPTER Yl Philosophy will clip ar] angels wirjg. Keats: Lamia. If -we dontPwill be because our notions are rjot Ijigl]<2)f politicians ar|d their double front,\V^ho live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie. ^r)d so fporq hour to hour, we ripe ar)d ripe, ^nd tbjer) from Ijoup to hour, we rot and pot, ^r)d tl]epeby l]ar|gs a tale. Shakespeare : As You Like It. 82
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