ut he had profited well, and not lost, by
the change. If it was a noble theme to study material nature in the
landscape and sky, he found it still more noble to study moral nature
in man; and man as he moved in the town, and acted in the drama of life
that was daily brought before him. If it was delightful to read Milton
or Beattie in a cornfield, in a clover meadow, under a tree, or on the
haymow; it was more delightful to his mind to read the same author in a
city, where, seeing more of men, he could understand him better. And
whatever was beautiful in country life he carried with him to the town,
with its green and radiant pictures still glowing on his heart, and its
morning melodies still murmuring through his soul. And he could act
out in deeds, what once he meditated in ideas. He was constantly
called, by irresistible voices, to go out of himself, and out of his
fixed and finite conceits and opinions, and mix with other souls; and
transform his conceits to comprehensive conceptions, and enlarge his
opinions to universal views.

From this rich and varied experience, and from these elevated ideas,
William Fabens spoke, as he conversed with his cousin and the
harvesters, while taking the harvest lunch.

"I suppose by this time, William, you are pretty well weaned of the
country," said the Squire, after a changing conversation on several
themes.

"O no, not at all," said William, "not at all. My love of the country
is fresh and warm as ever. It is a singular fact, that almost all my
dreams are laid in the country, on the old farm. I am often in the
country in my mind, and receive much of my mental, as my physical
sustenance, from country stores."

"I thought you would turn your back on the country and never think of
its homely scenes again," said the Squire.

"I like the city in many respects better," said William; "so much
better, that I prefer living there nine months in the year. But give
me the country in the summer. In night dreams and day dreams, I return
to the old homestead, to renew my youth, and refresh my sympathies and
tastes. I think of the pride of the summer landscapes; and the pomp of
summer sunsets. I sit in the shade of my old favorite trees and woods;
I bathe my heart once more in the moonlight; my ears seem to tell me
again of all the melodies of morning; the babbling brook; the lowing
herd; the cowbell's simple chime; the murmur of bees and insects; the
choral concerts that ring