r miles away, whither souls flocked from all parts of America to drink of the living waters. I had been feeling town-worn and world-

hermitage. I had a great making-up to arrange with Nature, and I half wondered how she would receive me after all this long time. But when did that mother ever turn her face from her child, however truant fr

erse in all this prose, I will copy for him here the poem I wrote next morning

eeping, and the arms of a thousand trees Waved and rustled in welcome, and murmured: "Rest-

my weeping, and lifted

the wood with feet

d their breath, trance-

rom the shadows, with v

silence, to the great

hy bosom, thy son w

clung, then into

f the town, the wi

dawns, and the morn

as a bird and inn

thoughts as

e me a

f beech and oak gird

O my mother, but her

ray in pilgrimage

a contrite here a

bosom ..." And the mot

giant maples had forgiven me, and the multitudinous beeches had taken me to their arms. The flowers and I were friends a