The day is done, and yet we linger here at the window of the private
office, alone, in the early evening. Street sounds come surging up to us -
the hoarse Voice of the City - a confused blur of noise - clanging
trolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and familiar cries - all the varied
commotion of the home-going hour when the city's buildings are pouring
forth their human tide of laborers into the clogged arteries.

We lean against the window-frame, looking across and beyond the myriad
roofs, and listening. The world-weariness has touched our temples with
gray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns and tumult presses in,
presses in . . . . presses in . . . .

Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the throbbing street below
slowly changes to a winding country road . . . . the tall buildings fade
in the sunset glow until they become only huge elm-trees overtopping a
dusty lane . . . . the trolley-bells are softened so that they are but
the distant tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills . . . . and you and
I in matchless freedom are once more trudging the Old Dear Road side by
side, answering the call of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood sounding
through the years.



The Garden