e touched the cork of the
inner vial, but the golden teas have brought the _fragrance itself_ to
our nostrils. Those who are ready can sense the whole story. It is the
fragrance of the Old Mother's being. You can sense it without the rose,
on the wings of a South Wind that crosses water or meadows after a
rain."

27

LETTERS

Outside, as I have said, it was cracking cold. We talked thirstily by
the big fire, discussed the perfect yellows in Nature--symbols of purest
aspiration--and the honest browns that come to the sunlight-gold from
service and wear--the yellow-brown of clustered honey bees, of the
Sannysin robe, of the purple martin's breast. We were thirsting for
Spring before the fire. The heart of man swells and buds like a tree. He
waits for Spring like all living things. The first months of winter are
full of zest and joy, but the last becomes intolerable. The little girl
had not let us forget at all, and so we were yearning a full month too
soon.

"I know a bit of woods," said the Abbot. "It is only two miles away. A
creek runs through it, and there are hills all 'round--lots of hickory
and elm and beech. There's one beech woods off by itself. Maples and
chestnuts are there, too, and many little cedars. There is a log house
in the centre, and right near it a Spring----"

He was talking like an old saint would talk of the Promised Land.

"You are breaking our hearts," I said.

"The hills are dry, so you can go early," he went on. "The cattle have
been there in season, as long as I can remember, so there are little
open meadows like lawns. The creek is never dry, and the Spring near the
log house never runs dry. I could go there now----"

"So could I," said the little girl.

They almost trapped me. I stirred in the chair, and remembered there was
but an hour or two of daylight left in the afternoon.... Besides there
was a desk covered with letters.... People ask problems of their own,
having fancied perhaps that they met a parallel somewhere in the
writings from this Study. I used to answer these perfunctorily, never
descending to a form but accepting it as a part of the labour of the
work. I shudder now at the obtuseness of that. I have met people who
said, "I have written you several letters, but never mailed them."

"Why?" I would ask.

Answers to this question summed into the reason that they found
themselves saying such personal things that they were afraid I would
smile or be bored...