would we part with our own particular
childhood, which, however difficult it
may have been at times, seems to each
of us more significant than the child-
hood of any one else. I can run over
in my mind certain incidents of my
childhood as if they were chapters in a
much-loved book, and when I am wake-
ful at night, or bored by a long journey,
or waiting for some one in the railway-
station, I take them out and go over
them again.

Nor is my book of memories without
its illustrations. I can see little vil-
lages, and a great city, and forests and
planted fields, and familiar faces; and
all have this advantage: they are not
fixed and without motion, like the pic-
tures in the ordinary book. People
are walking up the streets of the vil-
lage, the trees are tossing, the tall
wheat and corn in the fields salute me.
I can smell the odour of the gathered
hay, and the faces in my dream-book
smile at me.

Of all of these memories I like best
the one in the pine forest.