placidly under an apple-tree with a well-thumbed volume of the
wisdom of the inspired pagan Slave, Epictetus, in the hand, and the
eyes fixed, not on any printed page, but on a spray of warmly-
blushing almond blossom, where a well-fed thrush, ruffling its
softly speckled breast, was singing a wild strophe concerning its
mate, which, could human skill have languaged its meaning, might
have given ideas to a nation's laureate. Yet John Walden found
unalloyed happiness in this apparently vague and vacant way. There
was an acute sense of joy for him in the repeated sweetness of the
thrush's warbling,--the light breeze, stirring through a great bush
of early flowering lilac near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave
of odour which tingled through his sensitive blood like wine,--the
sunlight was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed
nothing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning's
newspapers had not yet come in. With them would probably arrive the
sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these daily morbid
records made their appearance, May-day might be accepted as God made
it and gave it,--a gift unalloyed, pure, bright and calm, with not a
shadow on its lovely face of Spring. The Stoic spirit of Epictetus
himself had even seemed to join in the general delight of nature,
for Walden held the book half open at a page whereon these words
were written:

"Had we understanding thereof, would any other thing better beseem
us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him and rehearse His
gracious deeds? These things it were fitting every man should sing,
and to chant the greatest and divinest hymns for this, that He has
given us the power to observe and consider His works, and a Way
wherein to walk. If I were a nightingale, I would do after the
manner of a nightingale; if a swan, after that of a swan. But now I