ickets playing
leapfrog over his back, and a pair of long legs stretching from tree to
haycock.

"No, you don't, and I humbly beg your pardon for making such an
unwarrantable insinuation. It merely occurred to me that the general
upliftedness I observe in you might be owing to that, since it wasn't
poetry."

"It is the good company I've been keeping, if anything. A fellow can't
spend 'A Week' with Thoreau and not be the better for it. I'm glad I
show it, because in the scramble life is to most of us, even an hour
with such a sane, simple, and sagacious soul as his must help one,"
said Mac, taking a much worn book out of his pocket with the air of
introducing a dear and honored friend.

"I've read bits, and like them they are so original and fresh and
sometimes droll," said Rose, smiling to see what natural and appropriate
marks of approbation the elements seemed to set upon the pages Mac was
turning eagerly, for one had evidently been rained on, a crushed berry
stained another, some appreciative field-mouse or squirrel had nibbled
one corner, and the cover was faded with the sunshine, which seemed to
have filtered through to the thoughts within.

"Here's a characteristic bit for you: 'I would rather sit on a pumpkin,
and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion. I would
rather ride on earth in an oxcart, with free circulation, than go to
heaven in the fancy car of an excursion train, and breathe malaria all
the way.'

"I've tried both and quite agree with him," laughed Mac, and skimming
down another page, gave her a paragraph here and there.

"'Read the best books first, or you may not have a chance to read them
at all.'

"'We do not learn much from learned books, but from sincere human books:
frank, honest biographies.'

"'At least let us have healthy books. Let the poet be as vigorous as the
sugar maple, with sap enough to maintain his own verdure, besides
what runs into the trough; and not like a vine which, being cut in the
spring, bears no fruit, but bleeds to death in the endeavor to heal its
wounds.'"

"That will do for you," said Rose, still thinking of the new suspicion
which pleased her by its very improbability.

Mac flashed a quick look at her and shut the book, saying quietly,
although his eyes shone, and a conscious smile lurked about his mouth:
"We shall see, and no one need meddle, for, as my Thoreau says,

"Whate'er we leave to God, God does
And blesses us: The