among the beautiful moth-infested oak trees.

I do sit down, and I thrust my idle hands hard into my pockets to keep
them from the Devil who would have them out at the moths instantly--an
evil job, killing moths, worse than picking stones!

Nothing is more difficult to find anywhere than time to sit down with
yourself, except the ability to enjoy the time after finding it,--even
here on a hill in Hingham, if the hill is in woods. There are foes to
face in the city and floods to stem out here, but let no one try to
fight several acres of caterpillars. When you see them coming, climb
your stump and wait on the Lord. He is slow; and the caterpillars are
horribly fast. True. Yet I say. To your stump and wait--and learn
how restful a thing it is to sit down by faith. For the town sprayer
is a vain thing. The roof of green is riddled. The rafters overhead
reach out as naked as in December. Ruin looks through. On sweep the
devouring hosts in spite of arsenate of lead and "wilt" disease and
Calasoma beetles. Nothing will avail; nothing but a new woodlot
planted with saplings that the caterpillars do not eat. Sit still my
soul, and know that when these oak trees fall there will come up the
fir tree and the pine tree and the shagbark, distasteful to the worms;
and they shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that
shall not be cut off.

This is good forestry, and good philosophy--a sure handling of both
worms and soul.

But how hard to follow! I would so like to help the Lord. Not to do
my own share only; but to shoulder the Almighty's too, saying--