"Riches Are The Attendants Of The Miser;
And The Heavens Rain Plenteously Upon The Mountains." I Can Fancy
That It
Would be a luxury to stand up to one's chin in some
retired swamp a whole summer day, scenting the
Wild honeysuckle
and bilberry blows, and lulled by the minstrelsy of gnats and
mosquitoes! A day passed in the society of those Greek sages,
such as described in the Banquet of Xenophon, would not be
comparable with the dry wit of decayed cranberry vines, and the
fresh Attic salt of the moss-beds. Say twelve hours of genial
and familiar converse with the leopard frog; the sun to rise
behind alder and dogwood, and climb buoyantly to his meridian of
two hands' breadth, and finally sink to rest behind some bold
western hummock. To hear the evening chant of the mosquito from
a thousand green chapels, and the bittern begin to boom from some
concealed fort like a sunset gun! - Surely one may as profitably
be soaked in the juices of a swamp for one day as pick his way
dry-shod over sand. Cold and damp, - are they not as rich
experience as warmth and dryness?
At present, the drops come trickling down the stubble while we
lie drenched on a bed of withered wild oats, by the side of a
bushy hill, and the gathering in of the clouds, with the last
rush and dying breath of the wind, and then the regular dripping
of twigs and leaves the country over, enhance the sense of inward
comfort and sociableness.
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