See here and there through the landscape rude huts like the masters':
wild spirits and fierce dwell within. But they are tamed into order by
plenty and hope; by the hand open but firm, by the eye keen but just.

Now out from those woods, over those green rolling plains, harum-scarum,
helter-skelter, long hair flying wild, and all bearded as a Turk or a
pard, comes a rider you recognize. The rider dismounts, and another old
acquaintance turns from a shepherd, with whom he has been conversing on
matters that never plagued Thyrsis and Menalcas,--whose sheep seem to
have been innocent of foot-rot and scab,--and accosts the horseman.

Pisistratus.--"My dear Guy, where on earth have you been?"

Guy (producing a book from his pocket, with great triumph).--"There!
Dr. Johnson's 'Lives of the Poets.' I could not get the squatter to let
me have 'Kenilworth,' though I offered him three sheep for it. Dull old
fellow, that Dr. Johnson, I suspect,--so much the better, the book will
last all the longer. And here's a Sydney paper, too, only two months
old!" (Guy takes a short pipe, or dudeen, from his hat, in the band of
which it had been stuck, fills and lights it.)

Pisistratus.--"You must have ridden thirty miles at the least. To think
of your turning book-hunter, Guy!"

Guy Bolding (philosophically).--"Ay, one don't know the worth of a thing
till one has lost it. No sneers at me, old fellow; you, too, declared
that you were bothered out of your life by those books till you found
how long the evenings were without them. Then, the first new book we
got--an old volume of the 'Spectator!'--such fun!"