Outing, Volum 34Outing Publishing Company, 1899 |
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Populære avsnitt
Side 59 - Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to people choked between walls and curtains is only a light and living slumber to the man who sleeps afield.
Side 125 - ... And leave his broken playthings on the floor, Still gazing at them through the open door, Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more ; So Nature deals with us, and takes away Our playthings one by one, and by the hand Leads us to rest so gently, that we go Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know, IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN.
Side 237 - Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning? Who is quick to read the noises of the night? Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning To the camps of proved desire and known delight!
Side 237 - NOW the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose — Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain ; Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?
Side 60 - Whenever a man hears it, he is young, and Nature is in her spring. Wherever he hears it, there is a new world and a free country, and the gates of heaven are not shut against him. Most other birds sing, from the level of my ordinary cheerful hours, a carol, but this bird never fails to speak to me out of an ether purer than that I breathe, of immortal vigor and beauty.
Side 60 - I am reminded of this while we rest in the shade . . . and listen to a wood-thrush now just before sunset. We are most interested in those birds that sing for the love of the music and not of their mates ; who meditate their strains and amuse themselves with singing ; the birds whose strains are of deeper sentiment...
Side 237 - Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end ; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend ? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smoky Indian that we know — To a couch of new-pulled hemlock with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go ! They must go — go, etc.
Side 295 - The breezes are south-easterly, bringing that vapour from the Indian Ocean, which is rarefied and suspended aloft over the heated plains, but condensed into a drizzle when it strikes the cooler flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain when it meets their still colder summits. Upon what a gigantic scale does nature here operate ! Vapours raised from an ocean whose nearest shore is more than 400 miles distant, are safely transported without the loss of one drop of water, to support the rank luxuriance...
Side 66 - It is difficult to get the right ones, and it will be bad for the owner if he fall in with the wrong ones- — men who have been spoilt by foolish employers, for instance ; a numerous class, I fear. We all know them. Smart-looking fellows enough, maybe, but shirkers of honest work. They prefer to ship on show yachts belonging to owners who like to exhibit themselves and their vessels in the fashionable yachting ports each season, but who are not sailors in any sense of the word, and have no real...
Side 60 - The wood thrush's is no opera music; it is not so much the composition as the strain, the tone, — cool bars of melody from the atmosphere of everlasting morning or evening. It is the quality of the song, not the sequence. In the peawai's...