"Our plenteous streams a varied race supply."
Pope.
"Creatures that by a rule of Nature teach
The art of order to a peopled kingdom."
Shakespeare.
Scene: The old pine forest; a beautiful day in later summer. Grey
clouds flitting across the sky's bright blue, and occasionally obscuring
the sun's rays. A gentle breeze going whispering through the woods, the
giant elms, the lordly oaks, and the dark and gloomy firs bending and
bowing as the wind passes among their branches. Patches of bright
crimson here and there where the foxgloves still bloom; patches of
purple and yellow where heather and furze are growing. Not a sound to
be heard in all the wood, except the clear, joyous notes of the robin;
all his young ones are safely hatched and fledged, and flown away, and
he is singing a hymn of thanksgiving.
Aileen Aroon lying as usual with her great head on my lap, Theodore Nero
as usual tumbling on the grass, Ida close at my side peeping over my
shoulder at the paper I am reading aloud to her.