in almost every house. The thought of the suffering, the anxiety for the
future, destroyed all pleasure. It came even between one's self and the
page of the book one tried to read. In those dark days I found some
support in the steady progress unchanged of the beauty of the seasons.
Every year, as spring came back unfailing and unfaltering, the leaves
came out with the same tender green, the birds sang, the flowers came up
and opened, and I felt that a great power of nature for beauty was not
affected by the war. It was like a great sanctuary into which we could
go and find refuge for a time from even the greatest trouble of the
world, finding there not enervating ease, but something which gave
optimism, confidence, and security. The progress of the seasons
unchecked, the continuance of the beauty of nature, was a manifestation
of something great and splendid which not all the crimes and follies and
misfortunes of mankind can abolish or destroy. If, as years go on, we
can feel the beauty of the world as Wordsworth felt it and get from it

"Authentic tidings of invisible things,
Of ebb and flow and ever during power,
And central peace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation,"

then we have, indeed, a recreation which will give us, not merely
pleasure, but strength, refreshment, and confidence. Something of the
same feeling we may get from an appreciation of great music, beautiful
pictures, splendid architecture, and other things that stir us with an
impression of everlasting greatness. Enjoy these and cultivate the
appreciation of them, but especially, if you can, cultivate the
enjoyment of the beauty of nature, because it costs nothing and is
everywhere for everybody; and if we can find recreation in such things
as these, then, indeed, we may make the joy of life great as well as the