A few pages of drift first of all with the younger boys.... There
is a lane of Lombardy poplars from the Lake to the interurban
car-line--a half mile. It is a lifting walk at any time, but summer
evenings are wonderful with all the sounds and scents of a true
pastorale--lake-breath and meadow-lands, the whole sky to look at, and
the murmuring dissonance of the poplars. Often we walk to the car with
passing guests. One evening a guest went away whom we loved very much.
A lad of seven, named John, and I walked back from the car alone.
He was ignited. I felt this at last through his hand. I had been
thinking about my own things all too long, missing the beginnings of
his talk.... He hurried forward in the dusk, speaking in a hushed rapt
voice. Because I had missed the first part, I said: "John, I want you
to write that--either to-night or to-morrow."
And this is what came in: